Aligned Design
by poppyfoxcroft
Summary: This story begins where Rune Alignment ends. Read that one first to understand this one. Some coarse language. Mature, intimate physical encounters. Chapters 16, 17, 18, 31, 32, 37, 38 and 48 may contain offensive, explicit images. Finished.
1. Chapter 1

12

Aligned Design

Chapter 1

"I don't see how that would even matter." Detective Alex Eames watched her partner speak into the phone. She watched the fingers of his right hand punctuate the point he was trying to make, or understand.

"No. I don't think it does." She could see his frustration begin to rise.

"Look, I don't want to do this over the phone." It's pretty early on a Monday for this kind of frustration, she thought.

"We'll talk about it later. Bye." Detective Bobby Goren hung up and then wiped his face with both hands, put both hands flat on the desk and looked over at her. "You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks. Want me to get it?" She offered.

"No. I'll do it." He stood, reached for her cup, turned and walked toward the coffee room.

I wonder who he was talking to.

Gleason hung up the phone. He would not give her an answer. She tried to explain to Bobby that she would not be home until later that night; that he should go ahead and get dinner without her. She was going to stay and work on her book at the office for a few hours.

He didn't want her to stay; said it wasn't safe. She tried to explain that she would lock herself in her office; that she would call security to walk her to her car afterward.

He would not see her side. Then wait alone at home, she said to herself. She needed to start working in her office. She needed to be away from him; he was suffocating her. Let him wait alone.

"Thanks," Eames said as he handed her the cup. "Everything ok?" she asked, taking a sip.

Bobby glanced at his partner and answered, "We need to schedule those interviews. Do you want to try to get these done today? Let's just go do them and save some time." He spoke more to himself than Eames.

Bobby had been back to work only ten days following his six-week involuntary leave. Well, it had turned out to be a combination of sick leave and suspension. His left hand had healed sufficiently, from the slamming he gave it in the men's room at the hospital after the shooting. He knew he was fortunate there was no permanent damage to his knuckles; he had needed minimal physical therapy. He had survived the food poisoning he had received from eating the hospital food. He had recovered from the attack by Clive Donohue.

He was up to date on the shooting range, his scores steadily improving. He was finished with his anger management classes. His post-trauma counseling was nearly complete. In addition, he had the love of his life. All should be well then, it would seem. Not so much, actually.

Eames watched him. "Let's get the information points in order for each person and then we can head out. Why don't we talk with the gallery owner first?"

Bobby nodded, sighed and flipped open his portfolio.

"Dr. Wintermantle? Dean Boyer would like to see you before your next class," the student assistant said, standing in Gleason's office door.

"Thanks, Lisa." Gleason looked at the clock in the corner of her laptop. She'd better go now. She picked up her steno, pen and keys. She locked her office door behind her and walked to the executive offices.

"You've been awfully quiet. Everything ok?" Eames asked her partner. They were on their way to speak with the gallery owner who had reported a lost shipment of six paintings. Major Case was involved because the painter of those six pieces was found murdered two nights before the insurance claim had been made. The death of the artist significantly increased the value of the paintings.

Bobby said nothing for a moment and then offered, "It's just hard getting back into the routine, that's all." No, something else is going on, Eames said to herself.

"How is Gleason feeling? She's back teaching, right?"

Bobby ignored her.

Ooookay, Eames thought. Trouble in paradise?

Dr. Gleason Wintermantle walked slowly back to her office after meeting with the Dean. No kidding, she said to herself. Huh. She unlocked her office door then turned and shut it. She looked out the narrow window from her office onto the lawn stretching to Selman Drive. Belzberg Hall was a nondescript 1960's era building on the campus of Brookbine University.

She hugged her arms around herself and shuddered. I'm going to lose this job, she thought. My job, what I do.

It was her fifth day back to work and she had just come from a meeting with Dean Boyer. She was expecting a "be sure and don't over-do-it" talk. Instead, their conversation concerned the lack of enrollment her classes were facing for the coming semester. Her program in Ancient Languages would probably not continue. She would continue, part time, through next semester and then first summer session to see the few students in the major complete their programs. Then there would be no more.

The Board of Regents had questioned the funding allocation for so few students. They had decided that the return from tuition and fees did not warrant a continuation of the program. In defense of the program, Dean Boyer had pointed out to the Regents that Brookbine University was one of only two in the East to offer the specialized major.

Nevertheless, the dean had relayed the data the Regents had cited -- the recent shooting in Belzberg Hall, Wintermantle's absence following her injuries, and the advent of technology in the field as reasons for the decline. Come the end of July, Gleason would be unemployed.

Dean Boyer had reassured Gleason that her pedagogy, professionalism and expertise were in no way in question; her evaluations were exemplary. The dean promised the utmost help in helping Gleason secure a position at another university. Dean Boyer seemed truly sorry.

Gleason did not yet have tenure and was, therefore, dispensable. What will I do? This is all I know.

To be honest, after the surprise had worn off, she didn't even feel that badly about her new reality. She had changed jobs enough, for reasons far more bizarre than this, to be bothered too much. Nevertheless, in the past, she had been free to move on, move away. Just go. Find somewhere else. This time it was different. This time there was Bobby.

"So, you are saying that you didn't know the paintings had been lost? Is that what you are saying?" Bobby was standing, pacing in the small gallery office. He was examining everything, touching pieces of art, getting close to canvases, breathing on it all. The owner sat next to Alex at a small table, watching the big detective.

"Well, well . . . I, the, no, I didn't know the paintings were lost. I called the delivery company that afternoon to ask an approximate delivery date and time," the owner said, shifting on the small chair. "Uh, can you not touch that?"

He continued, "The shipping company said the paintings should have been here Tuesday afternoon. Listen, can you not breathe on that canvas? Step back a little, ok?" The owner stood to make his point to Bobby.

Bobby turned around and put up both hands to show he would comply and took a step back.

"Mr. Canvettelli, had you met the artist before selling the pieces?" Eames continued.

The owner kept his eye on Bobby and answered, "Uh, no, no. I purchased the art through a broker in St. Louis. I knew of Peignoir's work, of course, but I'd never met him." Canvettelli watched Bobby wander to a stack of canvases leaning on the floor against the wall. Bobby began to flick the canvases forward against his knee.

"Look, I wish you would not do that, please. Those are recent acquisitions waiting for hanging. Please do not touch anything. Are we done here? I think I am done. Please leave." Canvettelli walked to the office door and opened it. He stood beside the open door gesturing for the two detectives to leave.

"Uh, one more question," Bobby began, "how much did you insure the paintings for? Market value or did you inflate knowing the price would more than double when the artist died?"

The owner glared at Bobby, "Get out. I'm not answering any more questions without my lawyer. Now get out."

Bobby snapped. In two steps, he was up in Canvettelli's face, backing him up against the office door. "We'll leave when we're done, not when you decide we're done. Understand? Now, I have some more questions. Sit down and get ready to answer them."

"Goren! Knock it off!" Eames shouted. She stepped to him and grabbed his sleeve. "Bobby! Stop!"

Bobby suddenly realized what he was doing and stepped away from the gallery owner. He turned and looked at Eames, saw the shock and bewilderment on her face and looked back at Canvettelli. He looked at the floor, turned and strode through the gallery to the front door.

Eames reached for Bobby's portfolio on the small table, flipped it shut, picked it up and said to the owner, "We'll be in touch again."

Gleason made two phone calls. The second was a message left on Brandon's office phone. She needed to speak to her graduate student soon. Then she walked to the reception area in front of the faculty offices. "Lisa, do you happen to have Brandon's cell phone number?

Bobby paced on the sidewalk beside the car, waiting for Eames to come and unlock it. He looked at the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. A quick glance up and he saw her approach. She was pissed.

"Are you out of your mind?" She tossed his portfolio to him and he caught it with a near fumble. "What the hell was that back there? Do you _want_ the department to be sued? Are you not satisfied with everything that has already happened?" Eames was so mad.

"Bobby, that man did nothing but cooperate. He did not provoke you. He did nothing to warrant your attack. What is going on with you? For Christ's sake, he is a witness, not a suspect."

Bobby listened to Eames go on. He knew she was right. He didn't remember loosing it; he couldn't say what made him go after the owner. The sound of Eames' voice had brought him back, made him realize what he was doing. What is wrong with me, he asked himself.

Eames continued, "Look, you need to talk to someone. I'm not sure you are done with therapy. Let's head back and talk with –,"

"Shut the fuck up, will you! Just shut the fuck up!" he screamed at her. He threw down his portfolio, took a giant step away and threw up his hands above his shoulders. He was faced away from her and breathing hard. He slowly dropped his arms, his shoulders fell; he turned and looked at Eames and did not recognize the look on her face. She was afraid of him.

"Yes, sir. . . I understand. . . As soon as they return. . . Yes, I will." Captain Jim Deakins returned the receiver and sighed. What is going on, he wondered. I don't need this. Damn you, Goren. What's going on with him?

Deakins kept an eye out, watching for his top pair to return. He needed to get their take on what had happened at the gallery. Upstairs was retaining counsel for the harassment and assault case that was coming together from the gallery owner against the department. Jesus, Deakins thought.

Bobby and Eames rode in silence. Bobby leaned against the passenger door, right thumb under his chin, fingers bent covering his upper lip. His cell phone rang and he ignored it. Without realizing it, he flexed the fingers of his left hand, as though they hurt.

Alex had never seen Bobby go off like that. Sure, he had intimidated many suspects, goaded them into telling what they wouldn't have told another investigator. His ability to intimidate was one of the many attributes that made him so good.

But, he had never, ever, lost it with her. Not once. She certainly never gave him a reason to. Eames knew about Bobby's temper, everyone did. She had seen it plenty of times. She knew he had been ordered into anger management classes to try to deal with it.

Apparently, the classes didn't work. He seemed much more angry, much quicker to lose it than before. She needed to talk with Deakins. She was afraid to say anything to Bobby. She had never been afraid of him. Never. And she did not like it now.

Deakins saw the pair return. He let them settle in and then walked to Eames' desk, "Alex, in my office, now."

Bobby looked up, "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

"I'll talk to you later."

Eames walked to her boss's office; Deakins followed her and shut the door. She took a seat and looked up the captain as he leaned on the edge of his desk, facing her.

"Ok, what happened?" he asked her.

"He just went off on the guy. The owner was being cooperative and had asked Bobby to stop touching some of the art. Then the owner decided he was done, and asked us to leave. Bobby asked about the value of the paintings and the guy wanted a lawyer, and Bobby went nuts."

"Did Goren touch him?"

"No, no, just got up in his face. I yelled for him to stop and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped and looked like he didn't know what had happened. He left the gallery and I met him outside."

"How was he?"

"Well, I asked if he was nuts, why'd he do that, that kind of thing. He was pacing like he does and then I guess I went on too long and he screamed at me. Told me to shut up."

"Did he touch you?"

"No, no, he just flew off, screaming for me to shut the f- up."

Deakins stood up and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Have you talked with Gleason? How are things at home?"

"I haven't talked with Gleason in two weeks. Honestly, I don't think things are good at home. I asked about her this morning and he ignored me.

"Alex, what do you think is going on with him?"

Eames thought a moment and then said, "I don't think his post trauma counseling worked. Either that or the counselor wasn't a good match. Sometimes that happens. I'm no shrink, but I think Bobby needs to talk with someone or he's going to end up hurting someone. I think maybe he and Gleason need couple's counseling."

Deakins looked at Eames. Thank God, she and Bobby reconciled, he thought. No one else would put up with him.

"Thanks, Alex."

That evening, Bobby sat in his chair in the dark. His mind ran with wild thoughts. Gleason, his anger, back to Gleason. He heard her key in the door and he stood.

"Hi," he said, stepping to her. He reached for and took her wrap from her shoulders, she handed him her bag and he hung both in the coat closet by the door.

"Thanks," she said. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" She turned on the lamp beside his chair.

"I got us Chinese. Are you hungry? I made a pot of tea." Bobby moved into the kitchen, flipped on the light over the sink, and began to take plates from the cupboard.

"I'm not hungry. You go ahead and eat. You shouldn't have waited. I told you I was going to be late."

He turned and asked, "Did you eat on campus?"

"No, you go on."

"Gleason, you have to eat, you are still too thin. Come on; eat with me. We can talk. Honey, talk with me." They locked eyes but said nothing. He poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. He watched her take a sip and close her eyes in pleasure. He still made the best tea.

His heart warmed seeing her enjoy the drink. He turned and prepared her plate with food from the four containers. He set it in the microwave and watched her sit. He filled his plate and the oven dinged. He used a tea towel to remove her plate. He set it in front of her and handed her chopsticks. "Go on, eat while it's hot."

She looked at her plate. Bobby had given her little bits, thinking she'd eat a little bit if there were a little bit to eat, knowing she would eat nothing if the plate were full.

"Did you go to the gym today?" she asked.

"Yeah and the range. I wanted to get something done while you were working."

"How did you do at the range?"

"Keep getting better; that's all that matters."

The oven dinged and he removed the plate with the same tea towel. He sat across from her and opened his chopsticks.

"Do you want something to drink?" she asked. "A beer?"

"I'll get it," and he prepared to stand.

"Bobby, let me get it for you. You can't do everything." Gleason rose and moved to the fridge. She removed a beer and then took the opener from a drawer. She tried to flip off the cap. She set the bottle on the counter and tried again. She was still so weak. She tried again, and Bobby rose, turned and took the tool from her hand.

He turned her toward himself and embraced her. She was stiff in his arms. He had not held her like this since before the shooting. He was shocked at how thin she felt. He held her gently, molding her into himself. God, it felt so good to hold her. He felt her relax and move into him. Her arms came up and held his back, her head against his chest, under his chin. He felt himself rise slightly. Oh, this is good. I miss this, he thought. I miss this.

Gleason broke the embrace with, "You should eat while it's hot." He let her go and he uncapped his beer. He filled her cup with a tilt of the teapot.

"Do you think he's psychotic?" Sledge asked Eames, "You know, his mom and all?"

"No, he's not mentally ill. He's just at his wit's end, I think. I don't think the counseling worked like everyone thought it would," she answered.

"So what happened, exactly?" Sledge and Eames were having dinner at "Dickie's," a coffee shop in the East Village. They sat at the next to last booth, Eames faced the wall and Sledge faced the door. Eames related the day's events. Bobby's explosion at the gallery, his outburst at her on the street, her conversation with Deakins and the odd conversation she and Bobby had had when she returned to her desk.

"What did he say when you came back?" Sledge asked.

"He watched me the whole way from Deakins' office to my desk. He had that scared, little boy look he sometimes gets. He looked at me like I was going to tell him everything."

"Did you?"

"No. I couldn't. It was none of his business. I just went back to work. Then he said he wanted to talk to me in the conference room. So I followed him. He shut the door and it was like a stream of consciousness monologue.

"He went on and on about how everything felt so out of control. How he had gotten everything back after having almost lost everything. I suppose he was talking about Gleason and his hand and the attack and all. He went on how he had it all back, but he had nothing. Nothing was the same. Everything was different. He said he didn't know what to do to make things like they were before.

"It was really kind of pathetic. He looked so sad. So powerless. Edward, he looked frightened."

Sledge looked at Eames. She still loved Goren; he knew that. He knew she probably always would. But now, he saw that she loved him like a brother. Eames knew that Goren loved Gleason and would never love her in that way. Goren couldn't, he and Alex were too different. She loved Goren as her partner and friend. Sledge didn't care one way or another. He loved Alex. They were growing together. She would love him; he would make it easy for her to love him. It would just take time. And he had all the time in the world.

"Goren's a lucky man."

Alex looked up questioningly.

"He is," Sledge continued. "He's lucky to have you as a partner. As a friend." Sledge wasn't sure whether he should ask, but he did. "Do you regret withdrawing your request for transfer or the request for change of partner?"

Alex thought a moment, looked at the man across from her, "I regret nothing. I'm the lucky one. I have you beside me and Bobby behind me."

"I'm not saying that," Bobby told her, leaning on the edge of the sink, with his back to Gleason. Why won't she see it? He had just finished cleaning up from dinner.

Gleason didn't respond. She sat at the kitchen table, right foot on the seat under her; left leg bent at the knee, heel on the edge of the seat. She looked away, toward the living room.

Bobby had suggested she give up her apartment on Murdock. She was pretty much living with him full time now, he said. But Gleason didn't want to do that. In fact, after learning she would be unemployed at the end of July, she'd thought of moving back to her place. Gleason had not told Bobby that the Dean said her program would not continue at Brookbine.

She told him she wanted to keep her place. That if he wanted her to give it up, it was his way of controlling her, removing her independence, making her dependent upon him.

"You know that's not what I'm saying." He heard such sadness in his own voice. Why is she thinking this way? It had been so good just six weeks ago. So much had happened, but why is she thinking like this? Why can't it be like before? He felt a panic rise. Breathe, breathe.

He turned and looked at her. He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Gleason," he started.

She shrugged off his hands, unfolded herself from the seat, stood and said, "Never mind." She walked down the hall to his bedroom, closed the door and lay on the bed.

Jesus Christ! He felt the anger rush through him like a flood. He turned and threw the tea towel into the sink and stormed down the hall to the closed bedroom door. Stop, he told himself. Just stop. He stood with both hands on the edges of the jamb. He leaned and breathed through his nose. Don't go in there like this, he told himself. Wait, wait.

When he was ready, he opened the door and saw her on the bed, on her side, her back to him. He crossed to her and sat on the edge, "Honey?" He put his right hand on her hip. She didn't respond. "Gleason. Please."

"It won't make any difference," she finally said.

Again, that flare of anger. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside her, up on his left elbow. He rolled her towards him, onto her back.

Bobby looked down at her and she looked up at him. He brushed a whiff of hair from her forehead. He watched her pulse throb slowly under her skin in that magical place at the turn of her neck. Her bradycardia had never improved sufficiently and now she was on medication to keep her heart beating at a viable pace.

He watched that spot, wanting to put his open mouth on it, lick it, suck it. He did nothing.

She was still so pale, still weak. She tired easily and napped often. Neither Gleason nor Bobby was back one hundred percent. Both had lost weight in their illnesses. Bobby was back at the gym, rebuilding what he had lost. He was massing a lot of muscle. Gleason, however, looked wan, thin.

They hadn't made love for more than six weeks. They had both been too ill. Now they were mostly well and it still hadn't happened. He bent to kiss her and she stiffened. He felt it and stopped. "What?"

She closed her eyes and turned her head to the left, away from him. Another flare went off in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and pressed them with the fingers of his right hand. He rolled off the bed, slipped on his shoes. He took his money-clip, cell phone and keys from the dresser and walked back down the hall. He slipped on his jacket and closed the door behind him.

Gleason heard the apartment door shut. She lay for another minute, thinking. Then stood, went to the closet they shared and withdrew the carpetbag.

Bobby stopped at Nixon's, a pub he and Lewis had gone to several times. He ordered a Weihenstephanuer beer and bummed a cigarette from the guy next to him. What the hell is wrong with me, he thought. He knew his anger was barely under check. Every little thing sent him into the blaze. Everything. His anger management classes taught him to recognize when his anger rose. Taught him what to do to control it; taught him how to avoid responding to situations with anger. But it didn't teach him how to keep it from flaring.

His counseling sessions had helped him understand that the shooting at Belzberg was not his fault, not Eames' fault, not Sledge's fault, no one's fault. He understood that he had not caused Gleason's shooting. He knew that he had not put himself in a dangerous position when Clive had abducted him. He now understood completely that nothing was his fault. But things were his fault. It was his fault things were not like they were before.

In spite of all the awfulness, things had turned out well. Elliott, the student stalker, had shot himself, removing himself from their lives. Clive, Gleason's crazy former lover, had been removed as well, thanks to Eames' crack shot marksmanship. Gleason had recovered, his hand had recovered, his aim was improving, and he had finished his mandated classes and counseling. Things were good, right?

Then why the hell was he so angry all the fucking time? Why hadn't he and Gleason made love yet? Why was she being so reticent, so quick to argue? What was wrong with his life? It should be good now. His life sucked.

Bobby finished his beer and the cigarette and decided to go back home. Talk it out with Gleason. Make it work.

He opened his apartment door, tossed his jacket on the back of the kitchen chair and went straight to the bedroom. Gleason wasn't there. Her green throw wasn't at the foot of the bed. A cold panic rose instead of the angry blaze. He opened the closet and the carpetbag was gone. He stepped to the dresser to pull open her drawer and saw the gold and onyx chain lying on the dresser top.

­­­­­­­­­­­­

"A round trip ticket to Chicago, please."

"The next flight leaves in an hour and forty-five minutes. When will you be returning?"

Gleason thought a moment, "May I keep the return open?"

Bobby called her cell. No answer. She had disabled the message function after the go

around with Clive. He called her apartment. No answer. Where is she? Goddamn it!

He got his jacket, keys and headed for her apartment.

Her silver Volvo sat where she usually parked. He got out of his vehicle, crossed to hers, and put his hand on the bonnet. Cold. She's been here a while. He used his key to enter the lobby, checked her mailbox – empty – and took the lift to the fifth floor. He let himself into 5D.

The apartment was dark. It was obvious no one had been there in weeks. Oh, no, no, no, he thought. She's run.


	2. Chapter 2

8

Aligned Design

Ch. 2

"The Hilton Garden Inn on Maple in Evanston, please," Gleason said to the cab driver.

She had stayed at that hotel once before, about a year ago when she had come to Chicago to present at a lecture series at Northwestern University. The conference board had booked her there and she liked the hotel. Besides, she was going to be talking with the folks at Northwestern on Friday anyway.

After her lecture last year, the head of the Antiquities Department had asked to take her to dinner. Dr. Milton Manlowe was a lovely, old school, gentleman-scholar. During dinner, at the Athletic Club, across from Millennium Park in downtown Chicago, they had discussed all the places Gleason had taught, the consulting and expert witness work she had done. Marlowe knew her books and liked them. He had made sure all three were part of the required reading list for the department. Over coffee after dinner, Manlowe had invited Gleason to bring her program to Northwestern. He thought it would be a valuable addition to their developing School of Ancient Studies.

She had been tempted. From what little she had seen of the city, she knew she loved Chicago. It had everything New York had, but it was cleaner, safer, and less expensive. The streets were wider and the people were nicer. She had certainly been tempted.

She had told Manlowe that she was honored at such an offer; however, she had made a commitment to Brookbine. Gleason assured him she would contact him if the opportunity for her to leave Brookbine ever came up. He seemed pleased at her sense of loyalty.

Well, that 'opportunity' to leave Brookbine had presented itself and she had called Manlowe after her meeting with Dean Boyer. Dr. Marlowe was delighted to hear from her. He was more than delighted that Gleason wanted to discuss the possibility of bringing her program to Northwestern. They had not discussed any details of why now and such; but they had made an appointment for that Friday, at one in the afternoon.

"Yes, this is Detective Robert Goren of Major Case, NYPD. I need to determine if a Gleason Wintermantle has purchased a ticket or boarded a flight anytime after seven pm this evening. . . . Yes, I'll wait. . . . Thanks, what time does that flight arrive? . . . Is she connecting in O'Hare? . . . What's the return date on that ticket? . . . I see. . . . Yes, thanks."

Bobby sat at his desk in One Police Plaza and rubbed his eyes, he was so tired. It was just past ten Monday night. He had used his capacity as a police officer to find out where she had gone. He had phoned the security offices at LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark airports rather than use the computer to search manifests for her name. He didn't want the cookies of a computer search like this to show up later.

Thank God she had not left the country. She's in Chicago, just Chicago. I can go get her. Shit, I can't do that, he thought; she's run from me. She needs to be away for a time.

Sledge rolled off Eames, caught his breath and said, "I'm gonna stay here tonight, ok? I'm beat. I'll leave early in the morning and go to my place before work."

Eames shifted under the sheet, reached for a tissue, handed it to Sledge and said, "Ok, but throw that in the toilet before you go to sleep." She rolled onto her side and turned off the light.

Sledge smiled, wadded up the tissue with the condom he had pulled off and walked to the bathroom.

"Here we are, ma'am. That's thirty-one dollars."

Gleason took a twenty, a ten and a five from her wallet and handed it to the driver over the seatback in front of her. "May I have a receipt?"

The driver flipped down the visor, snatched a blank receipt and handed it back to her. "Do you need a hand?" he asked.

"No, I've got it. Thanks."

Gleason laid the strap of her leather handbag over her right shoulder and lugged out the carpetbag. She walked across the brick entryway and pushed the revolving door. She walked to the short registration desk on the right.

"Good evening, can I help you?"

"Yes, you have a reservation for Gleason Wintermantle?"

The desk clerk flipped through the vertical file. "Yes, ma'am. Five nights, perhaps to extend. Non-smoking on the seventh floor. Is that correct?"

"Yes, thank you. I guaranteed the reservation with my credit card, but I'd like to pay cash for the stay, if I may."

This lady doesn't want a paper trail, the desk clerk thought. "Well, I'm supposed to keep a record of the credit card on file until you check out. You may pay in cash at that time if you wish and no charges will appear on your credit card bill."

"I understand that. You see, I would prefer not to have my card in use at all. May I pay daily, then?"

The desk clerk looked at the tall, thin, lovely woman. She knows what she's doing, she's done this before, he thought. She does not want to be found. "Of course, I understand. It will be one hundred seventy-two per night, including tax."

Gleason withdrew the currency for two nights and slid the bills across the marble ledge. The clerk took the cash with, "One key or two?" and processed her key. He slid it back to her with a smile. "The elevator is around the corner to your left. The elevator doors open on the reverse wall to the rooms. It's a little odd," he said with a smile.

"I remember," she smiled back.

"Will you need a wake-up call?" Gleason shook her head no. "Have a good night, then."

"Lewis, it's Bobby. What are you doing? . . . Yeah, I know what time it is. Haven't seen you in a while and was wondering if you wanted to go out and get a beer or something. What do you say? . . . Yeah, I know it's a work night. You want to go or not? . . . She's fine. You going with me? . . . No, she's back to work; she went back last week. . . . Huh? Oh, I see, sure, no problem. Tell her hi for me. . . . Yeah, sure, next time. Bye."

Fuck.

"I know, she called me this afternoon and asked if I could cover for her again. All week, can you believe it?" Brandon, the graduate student and Lisa, the student assistant in the faculty offices were sharing pizza at her apartment.

"Did she say why?" Lisa asked.

"No, just that she needed to be away for the rest of the week."

"She asked me if I had your cell number. What time did she call you?"

"It was before her two-thirty class. Why?"

"She had a meeting with the Dean this morning. The dean wanted to talk with her before her next class; that would have been her two-thirty. So, then she called you after talking with the dean. I wonder what the meeting was about."

"I don't know, but I'm getting a lot of experience and the pay is adding up." Brandon said with a smile.

Bobby knew this was a bad idea. He knew he should go home, go to bed and just sleep. He knew where Gleason was; not specifically, but she was in Chicago. He had wanted to run her credit card, but was afraid to. He didn't want an unauthorized search to show up later.

He knew he shouldn't drink alone. Shit, he'd called Lewis, probably his best friend. But Lewis had 'Sheila' over. What a skank that one was. Lewis had no taste in women. His Gleason, now – Gleason was a lady.

Bobby took another swig of his scotch and thought of her beauty. Even so sick, she was beautiful. She was so smart. So funny. Or, she had been. Christ they don't even talk anymore. Let alone fuck. He finished his drink and tapped for another. He needed to slow down.

"Make that one a double, will ya?"

"So, what did you tell them?"

"I told them the truth. That I didn't know the paintings had been lost. That I called the shippers to find out what day and time they would be delivered."

"Did you use my name?"

"Give me some credit, of course not."

"Do you think they believed you?"

"I don't' know. It got weird at the end. The guy detective was wandering around, touching stuff and I asked him not to. He was being a real pig about touching stuff and I wanted them to leave. He was going to hurt the art. So, I told them I was done talking and to leave. Then the guy detective asked about the assigned value of the paintings, you know, market or marked up. He was implying that I knew the artist was going to be killed and that the value would increase. I'm telling you he knows or at least suspects. I'm worried, Jenese. He knows."

"Calm down, no one knows anything. You said it got weird, what happened?" Jenese asked.

"Well, I didn't want to respond to the question about the value, so I told them to leave. And the guy detective went nuts! He got in my face, backed me up against the door, screaming at me to sit down and answer more questions. I swear, Jenese, I was frightened. I thought he was going to hurt me."

"What did the other cop do?"

"Well, she looked as surprised as I was. She hollered at him to stop it and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped and kind of looked surprised. Then he left first, and then she left saying they would be back."

Jenese thought over what Canvettelli had relayed. So, the big cop is a doofus with a temper, huh? Sounds like he might suspect something, though. We'll have to be careful.

"Come on," he said to Canvettelli, "let's get some dinner. You've had quite a day, haven't you?" Jenese leaned into his lover and kissed him gently.

Gleason unpacked her things. She realized how little she had. Everything was interchangeable, easy to care for. The wardrobe of the fleeing. She didn't care. It was the story of her life.

She washed, brushed her teeth and hair, slipped into her nightgown, took her pill, pulled back the spread and sheet and climbed into bed. She pulled her green throw around her shoulders and closed her eyes.

She laid thinking of Bobby. He loved her. She knew that. He loved her as no other man had loved her. Even Gavin. Gavin had been wonderful, kind, smart, everything any woman could want. She had loved Gavin. But Bobby . . . there was something about him. An intensity; layer after layer of being. Bobby made her feel whole. His love reached into her soul. She felt his intensity; his love was tangible.

Then why am I here in Chicago? Why aren't I in his bed, with him? Why aren't I letting him love me? What is wrong with me? Why haven't I told him I love him? He loves me. He's said it, more than once. Why am I running from my one and only?

Gleason could answer none of her questions. She knew, it had been wonderful, those first, so few days. But something had changed after the shooting. She had changed. Bobby had changed. She didn't know what to do to change it back.

Finally, she slept.

"Hey, Alex, that you?"

Sledge had reached over Alex's sleeping form when she hadn't picked up the phone on the third ring.

"Who is this?" Sledge grumbled into the phone.

"Alex? Alex, who is that? Hey, you getting some? Good for you. 'Bout time, huh?"

Jesus Christ, it's Goren and he's drunk, thought Sledge.

"Goren, where are you?"

"Huh? Who is this? Lemme talk with Alex."

Sledge sighed and said, "Goren, let me talk to the bartender. Hear me? Give your phone to the bartender. Goren?"

"Hey, you, he wants to talk to you, here."

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is detective Edward Sledge of Major Case NYPD. You've got my colleague sitting in front of you, right?"

"Uh, yeah. He's been here a while. We're going to close up and he's too out of it to drive. I wanted to call him a cab, but he insisted he call his partner. Is that you?"

"Hardly. Where is he? . . . Got it. Say, keep him there, will you? I'll be there in about half an hour. Take his keys, ok?"

"Already got 'em."

Sledge reached across Eames and hung up the phone. Jesus Christ, Goren. He got up, cleaned up, dressed and bent down to Eames.

"Alex, I'm leaving. Hon, I'm going to go, all right? I'll see you at the office." He kissed her cheek and left.

She never even woke up.

Sledge pulled open the door to Nixon's and stepped inside. Goren sat slumped at the bar. The bartender was wiping glasses and nodded to Sledge as he entered. Bobby was the last patron in the place.

"Thanks for coming to get him. You gonna need a hand with him?" the barkeep asked handing Sledge Bobby's set of keys.

"I don't think so, but thanks. Let's see how this goes. I just may." Sledge crossed to where Bobby sat leaning on the bar top. "Ok, dick weed, wake up. Come on, wake up Goren." Sledge slapped Bobby on the back and shook him by the shoulders. Bobby groaned and nuzzled back into his arms.

"Uh, he's got an unpaid tab," the barkeeper said.

Sledge exhaled with exasperation. "How much?"

"Eighty-nine and change."

"Jesus Christ, Goren." Sledge patted Bobby's back pockets but found no wallet. Great, he thought, Goren's a front pocket money-clip guy, should've known. "Listen, put it on my card and give me a receipt." He pulled his own wallet, slipped out his credit card, and slid it across the bar top. Sledge added a huge tip, signed the slip and slipped the receipt and his card back into his wallet.

Jesus Christ, what an asshole. Where's that woman of his? Why isn't he home banging her lovely ass?

"Goren, wake up! Come on, goddamn it." Sledge hauled the big man upright on the stool and nearly fell backwards with Bobby's bulk. "Have you given him any coffee?"

"I tried, but he refused. Sorry."

"You son-of-a-bitch, wake up." Sledge shook him a good one. Bobby finally roused.

"Wha-- , wha--? Jeeze, lay off will ya?"

"Goren, I swear to God, I'm gonna murder your sorry, genius IQ ass and give the rest of the world a break from your know-it-all-drunken-pissant-self. Get up! On your feet. Hear me? Get up. Stand up, Goren!"

Sledge hauled Bobby off the stool and grabbed him around the back. Sledge swooped under Bobby's right arm and grabbed his wrist.

"Oooomph! Jesus, food poisoning did nothing to take any weight off of you, did it?"

The bar tender came around the bar and opened the door. "Good luck," he said and watched Sledge sway with Bobby hanging off his shoulder.

Sledge leaned Bobby up against Bobby's SUV, propped against him to hold him up and unlocked the passenger side door. He got it open and maneuvered Bobby into the front seat. Moving Bobby was like moving a corpse. Sledge was sweating by the time he got into the driver's seat. He started Bobby's car and drove to Goren's apartment.

Sledge flipped through Bobby's keys, found the one to open the lobby door to his building, pulled it open and shoved Bobby though. He scanned the mailboxes and saw 'Goren 4B.'

"Great, four flights up. Let's go, shit head."

Sledge hauled, pushed, and nearly carried Bobby up the four flights. He staggered down the hall with Bobby's bulk leaning on him. Sledge let rain a trail of expletives that would shock a drunken dockworker the whole way to Bobby's door.

Sledge opened the apartment door and threw Bobby in. He was tempted to just toss in Bobby's keys after him and leave. But he wanted to make sure Gleason knew the lug was home. Besides, he didn't think she could handle a drunken Goren. Gleason still looked pretty weak the last time he saw her. Sledge stepped into the apartment and shut the door.

Bobby stumbled down the hall toward what must be the bedroom. Sledge followed him, ready to explain to Gleason what had happened. Bobby fell across the empty bed and Sledge was surprised not to see Gleason. He felt around for a light switch and then stepped to the bedside table and flipped on the small lamp. She's not here, he realized.

Bobby began to mumble something about "she's gone . . . leff me . . . don love me. . ." Great, thought Sledge, she left him. Smart girl, he said to himself.

"Come on, ass wipe, let's get sober." Sledge pulled off Bobby's shoes, rolled him to the right and removed his weapon, dragged him up and stripped off his leather jacket, and let Bobby fall back down onto the bed. Sledge stepped into the bathroom and turned on the cold water in the shower. He returned to the bedroom and pulled Bobby to his feet, pushing him to the bathroom and into the shower.

He stripped back the curtain and pushed Bobby into the water. Bobby sputtered, thrashed and swore, but Sledge held him in. "Sit down, go on, sit goddamn it! Goren, sit your ass down and drown a little, will you?" Sledge shoved Bobby by the shoulders, until he slipped, slid and finally sat. Sledge focused the spray of water onto Bobby's head and snapped shut the shower curtain. He walked back toward the kitchen and looked for coffee making stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

28

Aligned Design

Ch. 3

"Where do you think they are?" Bishop asked as she walked over to Eames' desk.

"I don't know. Do you think they're together? I just don't see it. Sledge and Goren hate each other." Eames replied.

It was nearly ten o'clock, Tuesday morning and the male halves of the two partnerships had not shown up yet. Eames wanted to tell Bishop that Sledge had been at her place the night before but was gone when she woke up. She didn't remember him leaving. Eames wanted to tell, but thought the fewer people who knew about her and Edward, the better.

"So, what time did he leave your place?" Bishop asked.

"What! Lynn, what makes you think he was at my place? For heaven's sake."

"Oh, come on, Alex. Everyone knows you and Edward are doing it. Get real."

Eames was stunned. They had been so careful. She and Edward made sure they gave no indication that anything was between them. No looks, little chats, nothing. Even after hours, they went to dinner at out of the way places. They never drove in together. No one knew. She was sure of it.

Eames looked hard at her colleague. "Ok, how did you know?" she asked.

Bishop looked back, took a sip of coffee and said, "I didn't, till now." She smiled and turned to walk away.

"Lynn, don't you dare leave. Get back here, you rat!"

Bishop smiled, waved over her shoulder and walked back to her desk.

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"Don't worry, now. It will all be fine. Understand? You just have a good day. Sell something. I'll take care of the other thing. Ok?" Jenese said looking lovingly at the younger man. Fuck this up you bastard and I'll do to you what I did to that faggot painter, he thought.

Canvettelli looked at the handsome man reassuring him and thought I am so lucky to have him. He'll take care of me.

They kissed lightly and Jenese left the gallery.

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Gleason woke slowly; she stretched, rolled onto her right side, and slid her hand over the empty sheet beside her. He's already gone to work, she thought lazily. She closed her eyes again and then realized where she was. She rose up on her right elbow and looked at the open bed next to her. What am I doing here without him? Her heart felt hollow. I need to call him. She sat up and suddenly felt sick. I need to eat something, she said to herself. I need to eat more, Bobby is right.

Gleason stood up, walked to the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and was nearly sick. She showered and dressed quickly. After tying up her hair, she slipped the room key into her pocket, opened the door, retrieved the paper from the floor and headed to the lift. She pressed the lobby button and rode down.

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Sledge debated whether to call Goren or not. Goddamn him, keeping me up all night. Let him rot.

The night before, Sledge had been pouring coffee into two mugs at Goren's place when Goren had come around the corner into the kitchen. Goren had dried off and was wearing light cotton green plaid pants and a tee shirt. He looked a wreck. Sledge handed him a mug and they both sat at the table. Neither said anything for a long time.

Finally, Bobby said thanks and Sledge nodded.

"You going to be ok?" Sledge asked.

"My life is so fucked up," Goren replied sadly.

Sledge was surprised by this. Goren was the golden boy. Weird as hell, but admired by the brass, adored by most of the women in the office, loved by Sledge's own woman – Goren's partner. Goren had a beautiful, intelligent woman to love him. Well, except for that last part, Gleason leaving him, what was so bad?

"What do you mean?" Sledge asked.

Goren spilled everything. He went on nonstop about how he didn't understand what had happened between him and Gleason. He didn't understand why the anger management classes hadn't worked, why the post-trauma counseling hadn't worked, why he was so angry all the time, why he still smoked when he had quit seven years ago, why he was drinking too much too often. Sledge was afraid Goren was going to start to cry. By comparison, Sledge thought his own life looked pretty damned good.

"Look, man, maybe you need to talk to some one else. Sometimes it takes more time or a different therapist."

Bobby finished his coffee and said nothing else.

"Look, I'm going to get going. Why don't you stay home tomorrow? Sleep this off and get your head on straight. I'll let Eames know about tonight. She'll square it with Deakins." They both stood.

Bobby still said nothing. He looked at the other man and said, "Thanks for coming to get me. For, you know, for, for . . ." He started to shuffle and go red.

Sledge bailed him, "Yeah, sure, forget it." He turned and left.

Sledge had caught a cab back to his car in front of Nixon's, paid the driver and got a receipt. He sat in his car, filled out the receipt complete with a huge tip, slipped it in with the bar receipt and drove to his place.

Should I call the bastard? Nah, let him rot.

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Gleason crossed the lobby to the small open restaurant opposite the front desk. She chose a single table on the far left, in front of a window. She set her newspaper on the table and sat. The server approached and Gleason asked for hot water, two chamomile tea bags and a large orange juice. "I'll have the cold buffet, please."

The cold table held every thing one could want for a healthy breakfast. The hot bar to the right held traditional hot American breakfast food. She took a plate and traveled the cold table. For the first time in a long time, she was famished.

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"Where is he?" Deakins asked nodding to Bobby's desk.

"Got me," Eames answered.

"It's not like him to not call."

"I know. Things are really off kilter for him right now. Maybe he needs more time, or more counseling."

"Yeah, so you said yesterday. What have you got on the painting shipment and murder?"

"Well, I thought I'd go back and re-interview the gallery owner; without Goren, you know. Then, when the ME's report comes in on the artist, I want to look at those details. I also want to talk with the buyer, and the broker in St. Louis who arranged the sale. Bobby was working up a list of known associates of the artist and the gallery owner. I don't know where he is with that."

"Sounds good. Let me know when Goren gets here. I want to talk with him about what you and I talked about." Deakins turned and headed for Bishop's desk.

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Bobby dressed in khakis and a white shirt, open at the neck. He seriously thought about staying home. But he knew that would solve nothing. He had to get to work, immerse himself in something to keep from thinking.

His head pounded. Why did I do that last night? Christ, I know better than that. He had a few pain pills left over from his broken knuckles. He took one and put the bottle in his pants pocket.

He slipped on his jacket and headed out.

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"Lynn, I'd like to talk with you and Sledge in my office. Find him and head over." Deakins turned to return to his office.

"Uh, Captain, he isn't in yet."

Deakins turned back and said, "What? Where is he?" What's going on with the men in this department?

"I don't know. He hasn't called."

"Well, call him. Find out where he is and tell him to get his butt in here. Let me know what you find out."

Deakins was more than a little pissed. Jesus, this department is falling apart, he said to himself.

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Jenese spoke quietly into the phone, "I'm telling you, nothing went wrong. . . . The police are idiots. They won't be back to talk to Canvettelli any time soon. I guess one of them got up in his face and Canvettelli wants to bring harassment charges against the department. . . .

"No, there is nothing to worry about; the insurance claim will be processed in two or three weeks. It will all be over then. Don't worry. . . . I need you to start thinking about the work that ceramicist in Baltimore does. See if it's something that might be of interest to us. . . . Right." I'm working with a bunch of fucking idiots, he thought to himself.

"And, I need you to start thinking about what you want me to do to you this weekend. Ok? Uh huh. Good, sounds good."

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"I'm in the deck, on my way up. Is Goren in yet?" Bishop had called Sledge's cell after Deakins left.

"No. How did you know he wasn't here yet?"

"Son of a bitch, he is taking today off. Never mind. I'll be there in five."

Bishop hung up and thought this is the weirdest thing yet.

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Gleason enjoyed the fruit, the English muffin, the yogurt, the tea. Oh, it was good. It is so nice, sitting here, reading the paper, and watching the few people walk by. It is so nice.

Suddenly, for the second time that morning, she missed Bobby. She imagined him sitting across from her, reaching for her hand. Smiling at her. Knowing they would go upstairs and make love. She felt her eyes fill. Her heart filled. She needed to call him. Hear his voice. Let him know she was all right. Gleason signed the tab, gathered her paper and headed for the lifts.

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Bobby met Sledge waiting for the elevator in the parking deck. They nodded but said nothing.

They rode to the eleventh floor in silence. They turned the corner together and Bobby headed to his desk and Sledge to his.

Bobby sat, flipped open his portfolio and then flipped through the pink message slips. He set those aside, picked up the phone and dialed. He listened to it ring on the other end, got no answer and hung up. He stood and took his cup to the coffee room. The pot was almost empty.

Before he could stop it, the hot rush of anger screamed through him and he slammed his cup on the edge of the counter, smashing it into a thousand pieces. He shut his eyes and leaned on the counter edge, breathing deeply.

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"Dr. Wintermantle, Dr. Wintermantle!"

Gleason jerked to a halt. Her head snapped up, breath stopped in her throat.

"How are you? It is so good to see you again."

Gleason looked up, toward the voice. "Antonio! Oh, oh Antonio." Relief was obvious in her posture and voice. She walked over to the registration desk and extended her hand. "Antonio, it is good to see you again. I was wondering if you were still here. I am surprised you remember me."

Antonio Palermo was a desk clerk unlike any other. On her last visit, he personally saw to everything Gleason wanted, needed and didn't even know she wanted or needed. Last year, Antonio had walked to the Wolfgang Puck restaurant across the street and down the block for her. He picked up a take away order of Atlantic Salmon Oriental Style with a mushroom/soy sauce, but without the soy sauce. Antonio had offered, insisted, to go and get it for her since it was raining.

"I am so happy to have you return here," he sounded genuinely pleased to see Gleason. "You let me know if you need or want anything, understand?"

"Yes, of course, Antonio. Thank you, thank you." Gleason smiled and continued round the corner to the lift.

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Sledge heard the crash, stood and headed for the coffee room. Jesus Christ, he has not been here five minutes.

Sledge saw Bobby leaning on the edge of the counter. He stepped into the small room and shut the door.

"Hey man, you ok?" he asked.

Bobby pushed off the edge and turned to look for a broom and dustpan. He saw one leaning against the wall behind the closed door. He reached for it and Sledge stepped aside.

"Look, Goren, you have got to do something about yourself before you get suspended, reassigned, or kicked back to uniform for good."

Bobby stopped, turned and looked at Sledge, "Tell me what to do."

"Ok, well, let me talk to Deakins. Ok? They have to have a program in place for situations like this. Man, you can't be the first to feel like this. Do you want me to talk with the Captain? I will if you want me to."

Bobby finished sweeping up the mess of broken china, dumped the pan into the waste bin and returned the broom and pan to behind the door. He looked at the other man and said, "Why are you doing this? Why did you come for me last night, stay with me, and sober me up? Why are you here now, being so nice? Huh?"

Sledge looked at Goren and felt the old hatred rise up again. "Fuck you." And he walked out.

Bobby wiped his face with both hands and turned to make a fresh pot of coffee.

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Eames heard the crash and watched Sledge head for the coffee room. She watched Edward shut the door, stared at it, and then watched him leave. He didn't look too happy. She rose and crossed to the coffee room. Bobby stood watching the dark liquid dribble into the pot.

"Hey," she said standing beside him.

He glanced at her, but said nothing.

"Bobby, Deakins said he wanted to talk with you when you got in."

He still said nothing.

"Bobby –,"

"Ok. Ok, for chrissakes. I'll go see Deakins. Get off my back, will you?"

Eames felt sick to her stomach. She turned and walked back to her desk.

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Jenese drove to the shipping office and asked if Navinsky was around.

"He's still on his run," the foreman answered. "He's due back sometime after six. Want me to give him a message?"

"No. Thanks, I'll catch him another time."

Goddamn prick, Jenese thought, walking back to his car, Navinsky was supposed to bring those paintings first thing this morning. Well, he'd better have them tonight when I see him.

"Goren, in my office," Deakins called when he saw Bobby leaving the coffee room.

Shit, Bobby thought.

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"Sit down, detective," Deakins said to Bobby.

Deakins looked at Goren sitting slouched in the chair. I don't want to lose this man, he told himself. I need to do whatever it takes to get him well. Dear God, don't let this be the beginning of his mother's illness.

"What's going on, Bobby?"

Bobby said nothing. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I need to know what's wrong so I can work to make it right. Are you feeling ok?"

Bobby slouched further back in the chair with his elbows on the chair arms. He tented the fingers of his hands in front of his lips.

"How's Gleason? Is she ok?"

Bobby closed his eyes and turned his head to the left as though he'd been slapped.

"Bobby, you have to tell me what's going on." Deakins watched Bobby struggle. He saw Bobby wanting to say something.

Silence. Then, finally, "I, I don't know what's wrong. Nothing is . . . nothing is the way it should be. Nothing is like it was before. I don't know what to do to make it like it was before. I want it like it was before. How do I do that? How do I make it good again? What do I do? Tell me what to do." His voice quivered.

Deakins saw his best detective spiral down into desperate . . . what? . . . loneliness, fear? He didn't know what to say. Deakins felt like a father trying to help a frantic, frightened son.

"Bobby, I want you to take some more time off. I want the department to get you someone to talk with. You and Gleason, both; maybe together and separately. We can—"

"Gleason's gone."

"What?"

"She's gone. She left me."

"When, what happened?"


	4. Chapter 4

36

Aligned Design

Ch. 4

Gleason slid the card key in and out of the slotted lock on the door. She opened the door, stepped in, shut it behind her and began to cry. She dropped the newspaper and covered her face with her hands. She cried, not from fear, but from loneliness.

Sobs racked her. Suddenly she missed Bobby, she thought of Gavin, her mind flashed to Christian MacNaughton. She saw Christian shouting for them not to take her away from him. She had been seven years old. She hadn't thought of Christian since she was nine.

Gleason had never felt loneliness. She knew the difference between loneliness and aloneness. She was used to a life of periods of long singleness. But right now, she wanted someone to hold her; she wanted Bobby to hold her. For the first time, she was lonely.

She took the 'do not disturb' sign from the inside of the door handle, opened the door, and slipped it over the handle on the outside. Then, she crossed to the bed and lay down. She pulled up her green chenille throw, hitched a few sobs, and slowly fell asleep.

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"I'm here to see Mr. Canvettelli, please." Eames showed her badge to the tall, white haired, anorexic sales person flicking a feather duster on a two-foot something made from god-knows-what.

"I'll let her know you're here." Eames had thought the sales person had been a woman; however, having heard the voice, she wasn't so sure now. These arty types, she thought.

Eames continued working the case without Bobby. She didn't trust him anymore. She couldn't trust him. He was too unstable. She was certain that he was still his brilliant self. Cognitively he was as sharp as ever; emotionally, he was a train wreck. His emotions were going to stand in the way of his intellect. She needed all of Bobby to be available to do the work they had to do. Pieces of Goren, without the whole, made an unbalanced heap, ready to break and crash on everything around him.

Canvettelli peeked around the sales associate and saw the tiny detective looking at the Maceon-Breue bust. At least that tall man-beast wasn't with her. God, what a fright he had been.

"All right, I'll speak with her. But I want to talk out there, in the open. Tell her I'll be out in a few minutes." The androgynous clerk relayed the message and Eames waited.

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Canvettelli frantically punched in Jenese's cell number. Oh, God, oh, god, what will I say to the detective? Answer, will you? I don't know what to say. Come on, answer. The cell continued to ring until the message prompt sounded. Damn! Canvettelli flipped shut the phone and took a deep breath. Be with me Jesus, he said to himself. He smoothed his hair, peeked into the mirror hanging beside the door and exited the tiny office.

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"Detective," the gallery owner with unrestrained aloofness, "your partner is not with you?"

"No, I thought you and I could get more accomplished without him. Can we talk in your office?"

"I would prefer to talk with you out here; if you don't mind."

"Certainly. Tell me how you decided to purchase those six paintings by . . ." Eames checked her notes, "uh,"

"Meraux Peignoir," Canvettelli supplied.

"That's it, Meraux Peignoir, like the negligee. Why him?"

"This gallery specializes in up and coming French artistes. Peignoir is – was – known as one of the brightest, youngest contemporary impressionists. His work was already being sought by notable museums."

"I see. Where did you learn of him?" Eames asked.

"Detective, please. I make it my business to know whom to know about." The gallery owner said scornfully.

"Of course, how silly of me," Eames replied facetiously. "How did you know the broker you purchased the paintings through?"

"Well, he was, he was referred to me by another gallery owner."

Eames caught the change in attitude. Canvettelli went from smug to hesitant. He was uncertain how to respond to the question about knowing the broker. Someone else was involved in setting up the deal, and it probably wasn't another gallery owner.

"I'll need the name of the gallery owner who recommended the broker to you." She looked at the man gone wan and added, "I can wait while you find that name for me."

"Ah well, I, it's, that is, it's at home. I'll have it for you tomorrow. I'll phone the name and number to you. If that will be ok?"

"I guess it will have to be ok. Tell me, what did you plan to do with the six paintings? Did you already have buyers? Were you going to have a showing?" Eames asked.

It was obvious Canvettelli did not have the answers he needed to keep the lies straight.

Why didn't Jenese fill me in on all those things? Why wasn't Jenese here to answer all these hard questions? "You know, detective, I just realized I have an appointment in a few minutes. You'll have to excuse me. I'll phone the name you requested tomorrow. Good day." And with that, Canvettelli swept himself around and departed into his tiny little office.

Eames flipped shut her small notebook, slipped it into her coat pocket and left. She headed to her vehicle intending to head back to the office. She wanted to meet with Bobby and discuss his list of known associates.

What is that going to be like, she wondered.

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"Things haven't been right between us since the shooting." Bobby told his boss. "I got home last night about nine-thirty and her things were gone." He debated about telling Deakins that Gleason is in Chicago. Bobby looked up and Deakins saw pain like he'd never seen in the man. "I just want things to be like they were before."

Deakins sighed and ran his hand down the back of his head. "Ok, let me see what I can do, Bobby. If I get you set up with someone you can talk to, do you promise to work with that person? Promise to do whatever that person says you need to do?"

Bobby looked down and said, "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"There is only one choice if you want to things to improve."

Bobby nodded in misery.

"Ok, I want you to stay close to the office here until we know what we're going to do. You handle the research and phoning while Eames works the field. Ok? If she brings in witnesses or suspects, you are going to watch behind the glass, she interviews. Understand?"

Bobby began to protest and then quit, "Ok, ok. We'll do it your way."

Deakins looked at Bobby's defeated posture.

"We can fix this, Bobby. It'll just take time."

Bobby stood and walked back to his desk.

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"Detective, the ME sent this up," the assistant handed Bobby a large envelope.

"Thanks," Bobby responded and took the envelope, opened it and slid out the forms. He read them and then lifted the phone. Eames answered on the second ring. They hadn't spoken since the coffee room. She was gone when he came out of Deakins office.

"Eames." She was heading back to One Police Plaza after leaving the gallery, stopped at a red light.

Bobby hesitated and then, "Alex, it's me."

Eames heart stopped. He sounded so terrible. Oh, god, how she loved him.

"Bobby. What's up?"

"Uh, I, I . . . I need to talk with you. Ok? . . . Alex?"

Eames closed her eyes; she didn't know what to say. "Bobby, I don't know what to say."

He said nothing for a long minute. Then, "Ok. Sure. I understand. Uh, uh, listen, the ME's report is back on the painter. I'm going to head over there if Deakins let's me out. I just wanted you to know the ME's report is back. I'll, I'll . . ." and he clicked off.

Eames folded her phone and her mind spun.

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Bobby hung up. He felt a door shut in his mind. It just shut. Suddenly there was calm and darkness in one part; the Alex part had shut off. It was good, not feeling anything there. Numb, his mind was numb regarding Eames. There, that's better, he thought. He reread the ME's report, stood and walked to Deakins' office.

"Can I run over to the ME's office? I want to look at the painter's body and talk to Rodgers."

Deakins looked up in surprise. "Uh, sure. Sure, Bobby."

"Ok. I'll come right back. I won't be more than an hour."

Deakins watched the big man turn and walk away. Oh, that's not a good thing, what Goren just did, Deakins said to himself. That wasn't my detective right there. Jesus, let him not be going like his mother.

Deakins picked up the phone and dialed Dr. George Huang's number.

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"Housekeeping."

Gleason woke slowly to the sound of knocking and a voice at the door.

"Housekeeping. Would you like service today?"

"Oh, oh. No, no thank you. Not today. Thank you." Gleason called, sitting up on the bed. She listened and heard the person wander away, down the hall. She looked at the clock. Two o'clock! She'd slept nearly four hours. She sat up and put her feet on the floor. Her stomach was upset. Too much for breakfast, she said to herself. It was good, though. But too much. She sat for a minute and then knew she was going to be sick. She stood up and dashed to the bathroom.

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"George, it's Jim Deakins. Say, I need your help, or advice or whatever, but I've got a situation over here that's beyond me."

"Of course, Captain. What can I do for you?"

"Well, to be honest, it's kind of a sensitive situation. One of my detectives needs some help. I was wondering if –,"

"Is this about Detective Goren?"

"Yes, it is, actually. What made you think so?" Deakins was surprised the psychiatrist knew he was calling about Bobby. But perhaps not, he thought to himself, who else would warrant such a call?

"I kind of figured. I knew Detective Goren had been in post trauma counseling and had attended mandated anger management classes. Those two programs should be just about finished and now would be the time for the results to begin manifesting. If you hadn't called, they would have worked. So, how bad is he?"

"It's not good, George. He's been back ten days and he's already verbally abused a witness who will probably bring suit against the department. He showed up two hours late this morning looking like he'd been drinking all night. He's had one major blow up here in the office. And his partner is afraid of him."

"Has he put his hands on anyone yet?"

"_Yet_? Jesus George, is that possible?"

"Jim, anything is possible. Has he hurt anyone?"

"No, thank God. He wants help, though. I talked to him earlier and he was really sad. I've never seen him like this." Deakins hesitated and then asked, "George, you know about his mother and her illness, right? Is it possible he's headed down that same road?"

"I don't think so. If Goren were going to manifest schizophrenic behaviors, it would have happened in his late teens, twenties or early thirties. How old is he, forty-something?"

"Yes, he's mid forty, I think. Thank God for that, anyway. I was thinking he was going to be sick forever. You do not know how much better that makes me feel. God." The relief in Deakins' voice was authentic.

Deakins genuinely liked the young detective. Not just for his ability to solve cases, but for who he was as a person. Goren was a smart, likeable guy. Odd, certainly, but Deakins had to admit; he looked on Goren as a son or admired younger brother. He was proud of the man.

He had hoped Goren would find someone and settle down. Deakins had doubted such a woman had yet to be made that would fit with Goren's character, but then Gleason Wintermantle had entered their office less than two months ago. He had watched Bobby fall hard and fast for the lovely professor. She was a wonderful woman. Deakins had silently hoped that they would become the couple he wished for Bobby.

Things almost went that way, and then the awfulness happened. The shooting at the university by one of Gleason's students, her being shot and almost loosing her life, Bobby's reaction, his broken hand, the food poisoning, his abduction by Clive Donohue, a former lover of Gleason's. His suspension, mandated counseling and classes. It had been a stressful two months.

It had looked like things were going to work out, though. Gleason had recovered; Bobby's hand had mended without permanent damage; he had attended his counseling and classes without objection; his range scores were improving and he was back to work. But then the anger, dear God, the anger. Now Gleason had left him. Things were bad.

"You said he talked with you earlier today. Did he reveal anything?"

"He talked about how he wanted things to be the way they were. He sounded desperate. What can we do, George?"

Huang thought a minute and then said, "Let me talk with his post trauma counselor and the anger management leader. I'll get back to you in a day or two. Is he still coming into work?"

"Yes, but I've told him he's in-house only; Eames is doing field and interviews. He's only to watch behind the glass."

"How was he with that? Any resistance?"

"No, not at all. He really wants to fix things. Help us get him better George."

"I'll get back with you in a day or two."

Deakins hung up and covered his face with both hands.


	5. Chapter 5

37

Aligned Design

Ch 5.

"Jenese, I need to see you. Right now! . . . That woman detective was here, asking really hard questions. . . . I didn't tell her anything. I didn't know what to say. You didn't tell me anything. How could I tell her anything? . . . No, Jenese, I did not say anything. . . . When are you coming home? . . . Well, I want to see you. . . . I need you. Just come home." Canvettelli was nearly hysterical. He'd called Jenese right after Eames left.

Jenese hung up and twisted his neck to the right. It clicked and he exhaled into a hiss. That son-of-a-bitch gay boy. I swear to God, I'm gonna kill him.

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"Yes, this is Dr. George Huang, with Special Victims Unit, NYPD. I'd like to speak with Dr. Stephens regarding a recent client of hers. Yes, thank you."

Huang called Dr. Alice Stephens, the counselor Goren had seen for his mandated post trauma counseling. He wanted to get her take on how Goren had been throughout the sessions and what she thought his prognosis was.

"Dr. Shepherd, hello, it's George Huang. Thanks for taking my call. I won't keep you, but I wanted to talk with you about Detective Robert Goren of Major Case. You saw him recently following his attack."

"Yes, Dr. Huang. Is he all right? Has he done something?"

"Well, the fact that you ask that tells me that you have concerns."

"Actually, I do. Listen, can we meet to discuss his case? I fear it's something I'd rather not do over the phone."

"Certainly, when is good for you?"

Huang and Stephens arranged to meet the next morning at his office. This has an ominous ring to it, he said to himself, hanging up the phone. His next call was to the leader of the anger management classes.

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Gleason washed her face, brushed her teeth and twisted her hair in a knot. She still felt queasy, but better than she had. She was just so tired! I need to get up and do something, she told herself. She removed the computer's memory stick from her purse, put the card key in her pocket and went to the lobby.

She smiled to the desk clerk manning the registration desk, then used the room key and entered the tiny business office between the front desk and the lifts. She inserted the stick into the USB port on the side of the desktop and opened her resume. Need to dust off this thing, she thought.

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"Well, Detective, it's good to see you. Where's your other half?" Bobby looked at the medical examiner for a full minute and then shuffled a box step, and said with a look of relief, left hand gesticulating like crazy. "Oh, Eames, you mean Eames. I don't know. I don't know where she is. I thought you meant. . ." He cut himself off and then continued, "I read your report on the painter that was found Friday night." He set down his portfolio and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"He's right here. What can I tell you?" Rodgers led Bobby to the wall of stainless steel, three-foot square doors. She pulled one open and hauled out a steel table holding the nearly frozen body of a slightly built, dark haired man with a goatee.

Bobby picked up the man's hands and peered closely at the fingers of each hand. "COD was strangulation with a wide, flexible object. But not a belt, your report said." He moved from the man's hands to his neck.

"Yes, I'm thinking some kind of flexible pipe. Like a hose of some sort, only more flexible. Maybe like a vinyl tube with wire bracing around it. If you look closely, you can see evidence of a narrow abrasion within the wider marking. He was attacked from behind. It took awhile for him to asphyxiate. The tube, or whatever it was, was not an ideal instrument. Whoever did this really had to hang on." Rogers watched the detective examine the artist's neck. She watched him pull up the eyelids, saw him turn the corpse's head left and right.

"His tox screen was clean?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, just a little alcohol, a merlot, in fact. He wasn't a healthy fellow, though. He was at the front edge of full-blown AIDS. He had had recent, unprotected sex with a male partner."

Bobby looked at the ME, "Can you put a time between the sex and his death?"

"I'd say fairly soon after, probably within minutes. I'm thinking his sex partner strangled him."

Bobby nodded. "Then the question is did his lover kill him because he just learned this guy had AIDS; or, did he kill him to inflate the value of the paintings." Goren swept his eyes up and down the body. Rodgers saw him thinking. He is one fascinating guy to watch, she thought to herself.

"Huh, we may not have a crime here if this was a lover's spat gone really wrong." Bobby looked at the ME. "Thanks for letting me look at him. I have to get back. See ya."

Bobby turned and walked away. Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers watched him leave. He's one odd bird, she thought.

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Eames pulled into the shipping service's visitor lot and entered the front office. She stood in front of the high counter and waited for the attendant to finish on the phone.

"Hi, I'm Detective Eames," she showed her badge, "I'd like to speak to the manager or supervisor."

"Sure, just a minute," the attendant said. She turned back to her desk, picked up the phone, pushed a few buttons and said into the receiver, "Bill to the front office, please. Bill." Eames heard the message blare outside, all over the shipping lot. The attendant replaced the receiver and smiled at Eames. "He should just be a minute."

"Thanks," Eames replied.

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"I'm back," Bobby said, poking his head into Deakins' office. His boss looked up at Bobby and nodded.

Goren returned to his desk and opened his portfolio. He turned to a fresh page and began to write.

1. how did gallery owner know the painter?

2. how did gallery owner know the broker?

3. why were paintings purchased?

4. who were they to go to?

5. already sold?

6. who was painter's lover? – killer?

7. why/how were the paintings diverted?

8. where are the paintings?

9. check out delivery service

10. check out driver of that shipment

11.check out other gallery workers

12. search for other lost art shipments

13. research painter

There, he thought, that's a good start. I wonder where Eames is. Bobby felt calm, steady. His head had stopped hurting.

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	6. Chapter 6

43

Aligned Design

Ch 6.

"Hi, I'm Bill Jackson, the manager here. What can I do for you?" Bill Jackson held out his hand to Eames.

"I'm Detective Eames. I'd like to ask you a few questions about a lost shipment of paintings that was directed through here."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Those six paintings from St. Louis. I'll tell ya, I have no idea where those are. Let me get you copies of the paperwork on those. Sarah, can you find the manifest for those six paintings from St. Louis? Thanks."

Sarah reached for a folder on the corner of her desk. "Here's everything," she said, offering the folder to her boss.

"Thanks." Jackson took the folder and opened it on the counter. "Here. Here's the manifest, the insurance forms, the routing documents. Everything is complete, signed and up to date." Jackson and Eames examined each piece of paper in the folder.

"I'll need copies of each of these, please."

"Sarah, copy everything for the detective, please. Thanks."

"So, how did you realize the paintings were lost?"

"When the gallery owner called to ask about when they'd be delivered. He wanted to know what day and an approximate time. Sarah here, talked with the guy. When she realized they were showing delivered, she called me."

Eames looked over at the office clerk. "Excuse me; you spoke with the gallery owner?"

Sarah turned from the copy machine and walked back to the counter. "Yes, he was very nice about it. I put him on hold, pulled up the tracking number and it showed delivered. Copies of all of that are in the paperwork."

"Thanks," Eames said and thought a minute. So, the paintings could have been intercepted or diverted by the driver. He would have had to falsify the delivery documents. On the other hand, the gallery owner cold have taken delivery of the paintings and lied about having received them. She turned back to Jackson. "Who was the driver on that delivery?"

"Sarah, who drove that truck?"

"Joe Navicky."

"I'll need to speak with him. Is he here?"

"Uh, no. He won't be back until after six."

Eames noticed that Jackson seemed to want to say something else. "Is there something else?" she asked him.

"No. It's just that a fellow was in here earlier wanting to see Navicky."

"What did he want?"

"I'm not sure. He asked if Joe was around, I told him what I told you – that he wasn't expected back until after six. I asked if he wanted to leave a message and he said he'd catch him later. He didn't leave a name."

"Can you describe this man?"

"Thirties, white, really pale, well dressed, slight build."

"Ok, thanks. Give us a call if he shows up again. Try to get a name, too." Eames gave him her card.

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George Huang called Derek Aldridge, the leader of the anger management class Goren attended.

"Hello, this is Dr. George Huang. I'm one of the psychiatrists with NYPD. One of our detectives attended an anger management course you ran recently. I need to discuss his case with you. Do you have a minute to talk now?"

Derek Aldridge graduated from Brookbine University with a BA in Social Science at the end of the last semester. He was twenty-two and had been a counselor with the Cranston Agency for three months. NYPD had a contract with the Cranston Agency to provide various types of programs for members of the force and their families. It offered counseling on everything from substance abuse to marriage. The only exception was post trauma counseling. A select cadre of psychiatrists specifically trained to deal with the types of trauma common to members of the law enforcement family handled those cases.

"Ah, yeah, sure. What can I tell you?"

"Detective Robert Goren was a member of one of your groups. Do you remember him?"

In actuality, Aldridge had only had two AM classes so far; sixteen people total. And he knew _exactly_ who Robert Goren was. That guy is nuts. "Uh, well, I see a lot of people, Doctor. I am not sure I recall exactly which one he might be. When were his meetings?"

Huang checked his notes, "He attended ninety minute sessions, three times a week for four weeks. He's a big white guy, six-four, six-five, two-thirty, mid-forties, dark hair, graying a little, really intense. He would have either had an attitude or was real quiet."

"Well, most of the clients I see are either really intense or really quiet. But, I do remember him. Intimidating figure, that one. What can I tell you?"

"What's your assessment of how the sessions affected Goren?"

"Uh, I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Huang hesitated and thought, great, this kid is brand new. No wonder Goren still has problems. This pup doesn't know squat.

"Well, do you think the sessions worked for the detective?"

"Oh, well, sure they worked. The sessions help the client spot situations where they experience anger, how to recognize signs of anger before they react, and tactics to stop or redirect the anger or its consequences. We do many exercises in each of those areas in each of the sessions. My clients learn how to manage their anger," Aldridge recited from memory.

"Why are you asking about this man? Has something happened? Has he lost his temper?"

Huang sighed and said, "You could say that. Thanks for talking with me about him."

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There, Gleason thought, that's good. She had added Brookbine University, the names of the courses she taught there, and the consulting work she had done with the NYPD and her work with the Cambrelli Institute. She reread her resume. I'd hire me, she thought, smiling.

She saved her work to the memory stick, printed two copies of her resume and shut down the computer. She said goodnight to the desk clerk as she exited the small business office and turned toward the lifts.

She thought about calling Bobby when she got to the room. I should, she said to herself. He'll be worried. Or, angry. No, he'll be worried. I don't know. Maybe not.

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Bobby sat at his desk not really thinking of anything. Oh, it is nice not to think, he thought. Nothing in his head, no one in his head. He felt so free, so calm. He caught himself staring ahead, at nothing. I should do something.

He looked at his 'to-do' list – number thirteen, research the painter. I shall research the painter, he said to himself. Bobby typed in, 'Meraux Peignoir/painter' on his laptop. He watched the search bar fly left to right as information on the young French painter gathered from the virtual world.

Ah, let's see . . . Bobby was stunned at the number of search results the name Meraux Peignoir provided. Peignoir's name appeared under galleries, museums, auction houses, books, videos, university classes, and society pages, gay and lesbian organizations, on and on. The guy was famous and very involved.

For the rest of the afternoon, Bobby learned all about the dead artist. He made copious notes and enjoyed himself immensely. He didn't notice when Eames returned.

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Navicky steered his struck into a parking spot in the back of the loading docks at the shipping center. He collected his code reader, lunch box, and thermos, stepped from the cab and locked the cab door.

"Hey, Navicky," Bill Jackson called when he saw the driver cross the lot. Navicky stopped, and then headed toward the boss.

"Yeah?"

"You finished already? Did you have a full load?" Navicky had returned nearly two and a half hours early.

"Yeah, a dozen went to that medical complex on Burkholtz. Just one of those lucky days, I guess."

"You're a popular guy today," Jackson said amicably.

"What do mean?" asked Navicky.

"Some guy was here this morning looking for you and then your name came up in a conversation with a detective."

Navicky went pale and then dark. "Who was here this morning?"

"I don't know, a small pale guy. Said he'd be back later today. I told him you wouldn't be back until after six."

"What about the cops? How'd my name come up?"

Navicky was a quiet guy, kept to himself usually. Hard worker; got it all done and did it well. Jackson watched the array of emotions play across the other man's face. Jackson thought he saw fear, curiosity, anger all travel across Navicky's features.

"A detective was here asking questions about those missing paintings. She wanted copies of all the paperwork. I told her you were in the clear since you delivered the paintings and got the signature. She was interested in the other guy, the one asking about you. You going to hang around, wait for the guy?"

"Hell, no. I'm gonna clock out. See you tomorrow."

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	7. Chapter 7

50

Aligned Design

Ch 7

Eames saw Bobby at this desk, reading off the screen, writing furiously. She sat at her desk and glanced up at him, watching him. Something was different about him.

He felt her watching him and he sat up. "Hey, I went to the morgue and saw the artist's body. Here's the ME's report. I'm not so sure his murder is related to the missing paintings." He handed her the papers.

Eames took the report and said, "What do you mean, not related to the paintings?"

"I'm thinking it may be a lover's spat gone bad. Rodgers said Peignoir was early full-blown AIDS. He'd had unprotected sex with a male partner shortly before his death. Maybe his partner found out Peignoir was infected and strangled him." Bobby watched Eames shift her eyes to the report. He watched her read. He felt nothing. She could have been a stranger.

"What is this that was used to strangle him?" Eames asked.

"Apparently it was some kind of tubing or hose with a thin strip of metal wound around it to give it strength; not the ideal instrument for choking." He shuffled through the papers and photos and found what he was looking for. Bobby stood up and reached over his desk, setting the photo of the painter's head and neck in front of Eames.

Pointing, he said, "Here, see here, you can barely see the thin blue line within the redness." He pulled open his top desk drawer and removed his magnifying glass. "Here, look through this." He handed her the glass. He watched her study the photo. "The killer would have had to pull hard and long on that hose. It would have taken a few minutes to cut off the air supply," Bobby explained.

"What is that kind of hose used for?" Eames asked, looking up at him.

Bobby sat back down, "I don't know yet. I'm going to investigate that next. I'm gong to ask Deakins if I can go check out some hardware stores tomorrow. See if he'll let me out."

He looked at the desktop; it was as if Bobby were talking to himself, "I'll check out tubing and stuff on line to see what I'm looking for and then maybe go look for some. Find out what it's used for; yeah, tomorrow."

Bobby looked back up at Eames, "Right now, I'm reading up on the artist, a fascinating fellow for a young guy. What did you do today?"

Eames looked at him for a second and felt sad and worried, "I went back to the gallery and got nowhere. Then I went to the shipping office and talked with the supervisor, a Bill Jackson. Here are copies of all the shipping paperwork on the six paintings." She handed them over and Bobby took them. "Everything looks just fine as far as I can tell.

"It's possible the driver stashed the paintings and falsified the paperwork. Or, someone at the gallery accepted delivery and then just reported them undelivered. So, we have two suspects – the driver or someone at the gallery. I wanted to talk with the driver responsible for delivering the artwork, but he wasn't back yet.

"One thing, though, Jackson said someone else had been there this morning looking for Joe Navicky, the driver. I got a description and left a card."

"Ok, well. I can't leave the office until further notice, so you have to do all the legwork. Sorry." Bobby said all of this matter-of-factly. He went back to reading the shipping papers. He didn't seem angry, or even bothered. Eames thought he seemed detached. It was somewhat spooky.

"Bobby," he looked up at her, "you said you wanted to talk when you called this afternoon. I was rude to you. What did you want to talk about?"

He looked hard at her. What did I want to talk with her about? It was something; can't remember. "Uh, I don't know. Guess it doesn't matter. You heading out?"

"Are you ok?" she asked.

"Yeah, why?"

Eames thought a minute. "Are we ok? You and me?"

Bobby looked at her like he had no clue as to what she was talking about. "I think we're ok. Why shouldn't we be ok?"

"No reason. Give my best to Gleason."

His head shot back up and Eames caught the look. "Is Gleason ok, Bobby?"

His face darkened and he looked back at the computer screen, ignoring the question.

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Sledge saw Eames return and hand paper back and forth to Bobby. He watched her stand, get her things and continue to talk with Bobby. He saw her glance his way and he began to shut down his computer.

Bishop walked back to her desk and saw Eames head toward the lifts. She glanced at her partner and saw him watch the tiny woman, noticed him hustle to close up shop on his desk.

"Big night with her?" she asked with a smile.

"Huh?"

"You and Alex . . . big doings?"

"Bishop, you don't know anything."

"I know plenty, big boy!" He stopped and looked at her. He didn't know whether to confront her or whether she was bluffing.

"What do you think you know?"

Bishop smiled slyly. "Don't worry; your secret is safe with me. Just be good to her. Remember, she's the best shot in the department."

"Bitch," Sledge grumbled and headed to the lifts.

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"Captain, it's George Huang. I spoke with Goren's post trauma counselor and the anger management leader."

"George, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. What did you find out?" Deakins answered.

"Well, I'm meeting with Dr. Alice Stephens tomorrow morning about his counseling. She wasn't surprised when I called; she was expecting such a thing."

"You mean she knew he is in a bad way?"

"Apparently so, I'll know more tomorrow. Chances are excellent he's going to have a complete rework with perhaps a new therapist. I'm expecting him to need something ongoing. However, we'll know more tomorrow.

"The anger management classes . . . oh, Jim, what a disaster. The leader sounds like he's twelve and is clueless. No wonder Goren is still so angry. Everyone in that class needs to be aware of the debacle perpetrated on them. I recommend Goren be reassigned to another round with an experienced anger management leader."

"So, he got ripped off on his anger management classes and the post trauma counseling needs to continue."

"That's just what I gather from my conversations today. I'll call you right after my meeting with Dr. Stephens in the morning. Maybe you and I can meet to discuss this fully."

"Yes, that would be excellent, George. Let me know what you find out and we'll meet afterward. Thanks, George."

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Gleason had returned to her room after updating her resume. She sat in the soft chair, curled up with the paper. She began to read, but her mind kept wandering. She found herself thinking of Bobby.

I should call him; he'll be worried. He'll be angry. She'd noticed how quickly his temper flared recently. He never lost his temper with her. He was so gentle with her. He did everything for her. He thought of everything. He loved her; she knew that. Do you love him, she asked herself. Oh, yes, yes, I love him. I love him like no other, even Gavin.

She thought back to their very first days together. She was immediately attracted to him during her presentation. He was so smart, so good-looking, so shy and awkward, such a gentleman. Bobby was so kind, brave, and wonderful to her when she had been so afraid. He had always been a gentleman; he'd held her so chastely that night at her flat when they had slept.

It was all incredibly romantic. Gleason knew she had initiated the physical aspect of their relationship. She remembered their first kiss, in front of the kitchen sink at her place. She had reached up and pulled his face to hers. His response had been consuming. She was surprised and excited by his passion. She had wanted him right there, she knew he did as well. She'd felt him rise against her. The tension between them escalated throughout the day – during their time at the market, shopping for the wine. The conversation in the car about 'what she liked' had been like nothing she'd ever imagined. Bobby was the sexiest man she'd ever known.

He was passionate, seductive, an extremely giving lover. That first night together took her to heights she'd never realized. He was able to love her so often, for so long. He was enormous and aware of his size. And, he knew what to do with it.

Gleason was working herself up. She needed to hear his voice; wanted to feel his hands on her; wanted him in her. She unfolded herself from the chair, went to her bag and found her phone. The battery was dead. Gleason's eyes filled. She would have been angry if she hadn't been so tired. She dug out the charger and plugged in her phone.

She was so tired. But she was more hungry than tired.

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Bobby's neck and shoulders ached. He'd hunched over the screen for about three hours. He looked around and saw he was the last one in the office. He shut down the computer, got his jacket and headed to the lifts.

He did not want to go back to his place. It was too empty without her. He crossed to his vehicle and decided to go where he could just be. Where he didn't have to think. Where no one would bother him. He headed for the public library.

Bobby was lucky to find a spot in the back lot and entered the massive building. He took the escalator to the mezzanine and turned right. He walked to the far back corner; ah, it was free. He shed his jacket as he walked toward his favorite chair. He threw his jacket on the chair as he walked to the nearby stacks.

Without even looking, he retrieved the second book from the end on the fifth shelf from the bottom, second from the top. He glanced at the cover, yep, this was it; Bobby smiled. He went to his chair, set aside his jacket, sat and opened the book to page two hundred eighteen. He began to read.

Immediately, he slipped back into the story. He was no longer in New York. He had no troubles. He watched Melrose crouch low in the rushes, he felt the moist heat of the Louisiana bayou, and heard the tree frogs chirp, announcing the approaching end of summer. Bobby was at peace in this other world.

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"I think something is wrong with him," Eames said to Sledge between bites of pizza. Sledge really didn't care about the weirdo. He'd done his good deed, and only because the lug was Alex's partner. Edward had not mentioned his adventure in Drunken-Bobby-Land to her yet. He needed to tell her, though. She needed to be able to pass it along to Deakins.

He wiped his mouth and said, "You know, Goren called here last night."

Eames stopped chewing; she swallowed and said, "What? When?"

"At about three. He called from a bar, drunk. I went to get him. Took him to his place and sobered him up. He's a mess, Honey."

"Where was I when you did this?" Eames was dubious.

"You, my sweetheart, were sound asleep. The phone rang three times and I had to answer it."

"Why did you do that? You hate Bobby." Eames set down her piece of pizza and looked at Edward.

Edward swallowed, wiped his mouth and said, "The man is your partner. You love him as your partner. I love you. I did what I had to do because I love you. Besides, like I said, Goren is messed up. Deakins needs to know how bad this guy is. You need to talk with Deakins. Goren shouldn't be back to work yet."

"What did he say? What happened?"

"When I got him up to his apartment, I went in because I didn't think Gleason could handle him drunk. She wasn't there. Gleason's left him."

"What? When? Oh, my God." Eames reran her interactions with Bobby over in her mind. She knew something wasn't right. He'd ignored her question about Gleason, he'd responded so strangely at the end of the day when she'd inquired about the woman.

"Did he say what happened?" she asked.

"He went on about how miserable his life is. How nothing is like it once was. I think Gleason's leaving is the straw that broke the camel's back. He's fucked up."

"Edward you need to speak to the Captain about this. Deakins need to know how Bobby feels. This may explain a lot. Will you talk with him tomorrow?"

Edward looked at her face and knew he couldn't resist. "I'll speak to him if he wants to know."

Eames smiled and took another bite.

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"Oh, god, ungh, ungh, god, yes, yes, ungh, arrrrrghhh!" Jenese jerked in his orgasm and then slumped over the younger man's back. "Jesus, you are tight," he breathed.

Canvettelli slid flat and turned over, "Do me, now. Come on; suck me. Jenny, do me now." Jenese looked at the man below him. He knelt between the other man's legs and bent. He took the whole thing into his mouth.

Canvettelli hissed and then moaned in pleasure.

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"Sir, sir. Excuse me sir," the woman said gently with a hand on Bobby's right bicep. "Sir, you have to leave now, the library is closing."

Bobby startled awake and sat up. "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Sure. I'm going. Thanks." He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.

"I'll reshelf that for you," the kind woman said, taking the book from him. "Or, do you want to check it out?"

"No, it waits here for me. Thanks, though." Bobby stood up and slipped into his jacket. "Good night." He headed for the escalator.

The woman watched him leave. "I've seen him in here several times. 'It waits here for me,' what an odd thing to say. She looked at the title of the book the man had been reading, 'As Things Were,' by Reuben Lesky.


	8. Chapter 8

53

Aligned Design

Ch 8

Bobby heard a far away buzzing. Slowly, he roused. Owww! God, his neck! He struggled up and realized that he had fallen asleep on the couch in his living room. Shit! He stood, rubbed his neck and went down the hall to shut off that goddamn clock. He did so and stood looking at the empty bed. She's gone.

His chest was a hollow cask. His heart was dead. He felt numb. Gleason had fled to Chicago. Today he'd figure out where she'd gone, specifically. He had an idea. He didn't want to call Brookbine to see if they knew where she was, or why she'd gone. He began to undress. He threw his clothes onto the chair in the corner and walked naked into the bathroom.

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"Come on, let me. Come on. It'll feel good, I promise." Sledge ran his hand down Eames' flat stomach. He was up on his right side looking down on her tiny soft body. His fingers probed. He leaned over and kissed her, tongue sliding through her lips. He felt her moisten.

"See, you do want me to. I feel it. You're getting wet for me." His tongue slid between her lips again and Eames shifted slightly. She moaned, reached for him and grabbed his goods in such a lock that his knees snapped up and he bent at the waist.

"I told you we are going to be late," she said softly. She squeezed just hard enough to make her point. "Now, get your ass out of this bed and into that shower so we can both get to work without letting everyone know what you like to do in the morning." She kissed him seductively and released him.

Sledge immediately rolled off the bed and stood, holding himself. "Jesus, I knew you liked it rough," he said with a smile. Eames shot him a look and he walked away. She heard the water come on in the shower and then finished what Edward had started.

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Gleason woke up sick. She couldn't get out of the bed fast enough. She felt better afterward and sat on the edge of the bed. I cannot eat that much yet, she told herself. She had been very hungry last night and had walked down the block to a family style place. She'd had a huge salad, cup of soup and all the rolls. She'd asked for more bread. She was stuffed.

She looked at the clock. It was an hour later in New York. Bobby would be getting up. She had to call him. Gleason picked up her phone from the desk, unplugged the charger and dialed his home number. It rang. And rang. It rang five times and she heard the click for the 'leave a message' message. She clicked off without saying a word. He must have already left, she said to herself.

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Navicky thought about calling off today. He knew who it was that had been around asking about him. That prick Jenese was getting impatient. Well, he could just cool his jets, because Navicky was in negotiations with another buyer for those six paintings. Top dollar won in his book.

He was no fool, however. Pangborn was a thug who would probably beat the shit out of him and just take the damn paintings. Jenese had class; he would do the right thing. He would pay the promised amount and move on. Damn, why'd he even get involved with Pangborn? Because you areone greedy bastard, he told himself.

Navicky dressed and headed to the shipping lot. He would tell Pangborn something – the police, in a search, had nicked the paintings. Yeah, it wouldn't be his fault if the cops took the paintings. Pangborn couldn't blame him. Then Navicky would call Jenese, hand over the canvasses, take the cash and life would move on. Fat chance.

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Bobby added the towel to the heap on the chair in the corner. He caught the display on the phone by the bed. One missed message. He grabbed the phone and saw that Gleason had called. Fuck!

He dialed her number. Answer. Come on, sweetheart, answer. It rang four times. Goddamn it. He felt the heat rise in his head. His right hand fisted. Another ring and the phone became a projectile across the bed, slamming into the wall, cracking the plaster and bouncing to the floor between the dresser and the foot of the bed.

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Jenese stepped from the shower and Canvettelli handed him a bath sheet. He liked staying at Canvettelli's place. It was a hell of a lot nicer than his place. Canvettelli had that arty gift – could make any place look good.

He watched the younger man groom. So, that's what fussy looks like, huh? he said to himself. He stepped up behind his lover and reached around, under Canvettelli's towel. He found his mark and fondled. Their eyes locked in the mirror. Jenese turned him with a hand to the shoulder. Jenese's mouth started on the other man's mouth. It didn't stay there.

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Bobby was already at his desk when Eames arrived. He glanced at her as she rounded his desk to get to hers.

"Morning," she said to him.

"Yeah," he answered.

"What are you doing?" Eames asked. Bobby was shuffling paper, clipping sheets together, and setting others in manila folders.

"Huh? Oh, I'm organizing all the stuff from the painting case."

"What are you going to do today?" she asked.

"Well, I can't leave the house, so I thought I'd finish finding out about the artist. Then I'm going to look for other lost shipments. See if there's a pattern. I'll run the shipping company as well. See if they have any history. Anything you want me to do?" He looked down at his 'to-do' list.

"No, I don't think so." She watched Sledge walk to his desk. He had left ten minutes after she did.

"How about you? What do you have planned?" Bobby really didn't care. But, Eames was his partner. He wanted to finish this case. He felt antsy. His cell phone rang. He took it from his jacket pocket, looked at the number and shot up, turned and strode away.

Eames watched him. Bet that was Gleason, she thought.

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"Dr. Stephens, thank you for meeting with me." George Huang shook hands with the woman. She was young, a tall, slim, lovely African-American woman of impeccable taste.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Dr. Huang. I've followed your work. I cited your article on deviancy markers in pre-adolescent boys as indicators of future pathology in a paper I presented at the APA last year."

"Oh, well, thank you." Huang was truly honored. Few of his colleagues in the police community knew of his academic endeavors. Huang was a nationally recognized expert on sexual deviation, especially in minors. "Please have a seat. Can I get you anything, coffee, water?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. Tell me what has happened that warranted your call." Stephens asked.

"Detective Robert Goren, as you know, is an unusual individual from the outset. Highly intelligent, genius level IQ, perceptive, intense, somewhat socially inept. You know about his mother's illness, her confinement. Detective Goren has always had an edgy quality. His temper is common knowledge. Up until recently, he's been able to keep his temper in check. He attended mandated AM classes which, unfortunately, were a waste of his time and may have exacerbated his problem."

"Let me interrupt you. Did he attend AM classes through the Cranston Agency?"

"Yes, why?"

"Tell me, was Derek Aldridge his leader?"

"Yes. You know of this young fellow?"

"I've been called to work with two other members of AM groups Aldridge has led. I don't know how that individual got his license and made it through the interview."

"Well, that confirms one of my suspicions. Goren will need to attend another round of classes. Don't you think?"

"I'm not sure that will help him. I think he needs something else, something more specific to his current feelings of helplessness. I interrupted you, sorry. What has he done?"

Huang explained about Goren's temper, his drinking, his feelings of loss, his mandated desk duty, Gleason's leaving, and everything that Deakins had told him. Stephens listened attentively. She nodded throughout, but looked surprised at the mention of Gleason.

"Who is Gleason?"

Huang was stunned by the question. "Why, Gleason is his, I guess you'd call her his significant other. Dr. Gleason Wintermantle is the ex-lover of the man who abducted and attacked Goren. The student who shot up the university was stalking her; he was a student of hers. Goren never mentioned her? In all of your sessions, she never came up?"

"No. This is incredible. How long have they been together?"

"Well, I'm not sure of that."

"Dr. Huang,"

"Please, call me George."

"George, is it possible for me to meet with his captain and perhaps his partner? I would be interested in their take on how Detective Goren is. Apparently there is more to the man than he's telling us."

"I agree. When would be a good time for you?" Huang checked his watch, ten-forty.

"I have nothing until three this afternoon. Do you think today would be possible?" she asked.

"Let me call Captain Deakins and see what's good for him and Detective Eames, Goren's partner. Excuse me."

The two psychiatrists made plans to meet with Goren's boss and partner in an hour. They debated about where to meet. If they met at One Police Plaza, Goren would see the pow-wow and who knows what might result from that. On the other hand, maybe he would want or need to be a part of the conversation at some point. The four agreed to meet in an hour and half at Major Case.

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Jenese discretely followed the big green delivery truck all over the friggin' city. He was waiting for Navicky to pull into an alley or up to a rear loading dock. He wanted to get the bastard alone. I'm gonna jerk the information out of him, he thought. Jerk me around, will you? We'll see. He glanced at his gas gauge – Jesus, three fifteen a gallon and I'm ass tagging a truck. There is no justice.

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	9. Chapter 9

6

Aligned Design

Ch 9.

"Bobby?"

His relief was physical. "Gleason, oh god, Gleason. Where are you? Honey, where are you? Are you ok?" He strode past the lifts and turned left. The door was on the right.

"Bobby, I'm sorry I left without telling you. It was wrong of me to leave like that. I was angry. I'm sorry; forgive me. Say you forgive me?" Gleason was crying.

"Oh, Honey, don't cry. I forgive you. I'm sorry. Don't cry. Come home. Come home, Gleason. I need you. Please come home. I want things like they were. Come home."

Bobby pulled open the utility closet door and slipped inside and shut the door. He leaned against the wall. "Will you come home? Do you want me to come and get you? Let me come and get you."

"No, no Bobby don't come. I can't come home yet. I'm sorry. I can't come yet."

"Why not? Why can't you come home. Come home. Please, Honey. I'll change, I'll not be so mad anymore. Why can't you come home?" Bobby was frenetic. He didn't cry, but she heard the anxiety in his voice.

His mind ran wild. I need her to come back. I need her. She can't stay away. She can't. I need her. Come home.

"Bobby, calm down." Gleason was frightened by how he sounded. She was afraid he would break. He sounded frantic. "Bobby where are you right now? Tell me. Where are you, love? Tell me."

"I'm I'm, I'm at work." His breath was hitching in his chest. "I'm in a utility closet so, so, uh, so we can talk privately. Deakins won't let me out of the office. I pissed off someone. I'm not sure who. I'm sorry I made you mad, Gleason. Will you come home? Honey? Please come home." He couldn't catch his breath. He felt tears coming. Do not cry! he yelled at himself. Do not! Stop now. Stop thinking! A door slammed in his head. Suddenly his mind was clear.

Gleason's heart broke. I did this to him. He's been so fragile and I pushed him over the edge. Oh, god, what have I done?

"Gleason, come home," he said calmly. "Do you want to come home? You can come home." He was having trouble breathing again. "Gleason, Glea- . . ." He hitched a sob. He couldn't breathe. "Glea--." Then the tears fell. "Come home, please. Please. I love you. Come home." His voice was barely a whisper.

"Bobby, listen to me. Love, love, listen to me. Bobby, sweetheart." She listened to him sob. She kept talking to him, making him hear her voice.

"Bobby I'm here. I will be home soon. I'll be home Friday night. Ok? I'll come home Friday night. You can pick me up. Bobby, do you hear me? Lovey, listen to me. Bobby calm down. Bobby, please." She heard his sobbing begin to abate. His crying slowed. His breathing slowed. She listened.

"Love, are you all right? Bobby, talk to me. Are you ok? Bobby?"

He hitched several breaths and barely whispered, "Yes. Gleason I love you. Do you love me? Say you love me. Please love me. I can't live without you. Everything is so wrong. Come home." He was working himself up again.

"Bobby listen to me. I'm coming home on Friday night. The day after tomorrow. I will be home in two days. We will talk every day. Several times. Ok? I'll talk to you this evening. We'll talk a long time tonight. Ok? Bobby?"

"You promise you're coming home? I want things to be like they were. I can make things like they were. I can. But you have to come home. You promise to come home?"

"Yes, love, I promise. I'll call you tonight. I'll call you at six o'clock your time. Ok? Six o'clock. Will you be home?"

"Yes, yes I'll be home. You'll call me at six. Ok. Ok, Gleason. I love you. You know that, right? I love you."

"I know you love me, sweetheart. I know. Why don't you go home. Deakins will let you go home, won't he? Go home and lie down. Sleep, love. Take a nap in our bed. Dream of me. I'll be home on Friday night."

Bobby was calm. "I can't go home, I don't have any sick days left. I have to stay and not leave. I can't leave. I'll be ok. Are you ok? Why did you leave me? Gleason?"

She couldn't answer that. She didn't know. "Love, we'll talk about everything tonight, ok? You have to get back to work. I wish you could go home. Will you be ok?"

"Yes. I love you, Gleason."

"I know you do, love. I'll call you at six, alright? You take care today. I'll talk to you later. Bye."

"Bye."

They both clicked off. Bobby sat in the utility closet for several more minutes. Betsy, one of the daytime custodians, checked back fifteen minutes later and the closet was empty. She sure hoped that fella made up with whoever he was crying over. He sure loved her.

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"Alex, in my office, please." Deakins said as he walked behind her on his way to the fax machine.

Bobby still wasn't back from his cell call. Must have been Gleason, she thought. Or his mom. Let it be Gleason.

She walked to the boss's office and sat, waiting for him. Deakins returned with a sheet of paper, he shut the door and set the paper on his desk.

"Huang and Bobby's psychiatrist are on their way over. They want to talk with you and me about him. How he's been. They want to get the situation first hand. You'll be around, won't you?"

"Of course." Eames mind ran with the dilemma of whether to tell Deakins what Edward had shared. If it would help Bobby, she had to. "Uh, Captain, Sledge might have something to offer regarding Bobby." She looked at her boss and then looked away. Damn, she did not want to break eye contact with him. He'll wonder how I know this.

"Sledge? They hate each other. What could Sledge offer other than swill concerning Goren the man, his heritage, intellect, personality and the rest. What does Sledge know?"

"Maybe he should tell you and you decide if it's important. Do you want me to go get him?"

"Uh, sure, I guess."

Eames stood, opened the door and headed straight for Sledge's desk. He saw her coming and stood up, wondering what the hell?

"Deakins wants to hear your story about Bobby from the other night."

"You told him about us?"

Eames was furious. She hissed to Sledge, "No! Bobby's shrink is on the way over with Huang. They want to find out what's wrong with him. They want to talk to Deakins and me because we know him best. I said you had information that might be important.

"Now, walk over there with me and tell Deakins what you told me. Jesus Christ, Edward. 'Did I tell him about us!' Sometimes you make me crazy!" She turned and practically marched back to the captain's office. Sledge followed contritely.

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Finally! A loading dock in the back, thank god! Jenese pulled in behind the green truck and parked off to the side.

Navicky was at his ninth stop and it was just past noon. His truck was not quite half-empty, but this stop would drop eight more boxes, big ones. Navicky used his mirrors to back up close to the small loading dock. He was glancing from left to right and back again, maneuvering carefully, when he saw the small blue car. His gut tightened.

Jenese watched the trucker with admiration. Nice job backing that bad boy up close. Of course, Jenese was imagining another situation altogether, where that kind of maneuvering skill might be useful. Shame on me, he thought with a smile.

Navicky shut down his truck and hopped from the cab. He walked to the back and slid up the overhead door. He acted as though he hadn't seen Jenese. Navicky hauled off the dolly and jumped up into the back of his truck, checking tracking numbers with his reader. Jenese stood at the bumper and watched.

"So, this is what you do all day?" he asked.

Joe Navicky looked over at the slight man. "What do you want?"

"What I want," Jenese said, pulling himself up into the enclosed bed of the truck, "is six paintings you have for me."

Navicky considered carefully what to say. Last chance to engage in a top bidder war with Jenese and Pangborn. What the hell.

"Actually, I have another interested party. He's offering considerably more than you are, Jenese."

"Is he? Well, you have become quite the entrepreneur, haven't you? I'm proud of you Joe. Really. I, being a kind person, bring you into a deal whereby you stand to make close to a hundred thousand dollars for doing nothing put setting aside six crates.

"And here you are, stealing from the kind person who brought you on board, holding the merchandise, which isn't yours, by the way, ransom and then entering into a bidding war between the kind person and some other no good thug. Where'd you meet this person, did he come to you after hearing you brag about the great deal you're into? That it, Joe? You been shooting off your mouth?"

Jenese kept moving slowly toward the other man. Navicky realized he was inside his truck, with no exit at his end, surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes, which would insulate against any sound. He began to sweat. This wasn't supposed to go this way, he thought.

Jenese remained calm. He just wanted to know where the paintings were. He couldn't do anything to Navicky until he learned the location of the crates. This other buyer was an interesting development, however. Is this idiot smart enough to try to bluff me or did he go and get someone else involved in this scam, he wondered. No, he's just dumb enough to drag someone else into this. One more thief who would no sooner kill this bastard than pay him. Christ, people are stupid.

"So, Joe, tell me, where'd you stash those crates, huh?" He continued toward the other man. Joe was backing up, bumping into and stumbling over boxes. "You got them nearby? We can just run on over and pick 'em up, what do you say? They nearby? Huh? Where are they, Joe?"

Navicky was flat against the back wall of his truck. Nowhere to go. "Uh, well, I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you where they are. Got this other offer, you know. You can't hurt me, you know. You hurt me and you'll never know where they are. They'll be lost forever. So, just back off, hear me? Back off."

"Joe, I gotta hand it to you. You have the absolute best false bravado. I'm telling you, you could win an award with that act." Jenese began to clap slowly, the sound snapping harshly as is it slapped the cardboard.

"No, you see, Joe, I can do things to you to make you tell me where those paintings are. I can do things you cannot even imagine. You've got places on your body that I, personally, really like to fool with. Naw, Joe, I can make you tell me. Probably in under an hour. Hell, I could fool with you, get the info, go get the crates, and you could still be on time with your routes. How's that for service?"

Jenese got into Navicky's face, reached down, found Navicky's plaything and fondled a bit. Oh, a little stiffy there. "You like that Joe? Can't help it, can you? I know, kind of embarrassing, but goddamn it feels good. Want me to suck you? I will. Right here, behind all these boxes. No one will know." Jenese licked his lips.

Navicky didn't know what to do, he was confused. He'd never been done by a man before. He'd paid women, sure. It did feel good, what Jenese was doing. Jenese knew what he was doing.

"Tell me where the crates are, Joey. Tell me." Jenese found Navicky's zipper and pulled it down, reached in and grasped the man through his shorts. "Come on. Where are they?"

Suddenly, someone was rapping on the side of the truck, "Hey, are you in there? Driver? Where are you? Are you ok in there?"

Both men stopped and Jenese spun around.

Navicky called, "Yeah, yeah I'm in here looking for something. Be right there."

Jenese ducked behind a stack and hissed, "Get rid of him so I can get the fuck out of here. Hear me? We're not done here."

Navicky headed for the open end of the truck.


	10. Chapter 10

62

Aligned Design

Ch 10

Bobby left the utility closet and walked calmly to the men's room. He stood at the urinal, flushed and went to the sink. He washed his hands and splashed water on his face. There, he looked better. He felt better, too.

God it was good to talk with her. He felt good. He knew she was ok. She was coming home in two days. Friday night. He would meet her flight; bring her home. Make sure she was happy. He would do anything to keep her from running away again. Anything. He would change.

He just wanted things the way they were before.

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"It's right down his way," Huang said to Dr. Stephens as they stepped from the lift. They turned the corner heading for the detective unit and Bobby came up behind them.

"Dr. Stephens?" he called.

Huang and Stephens both stopped and turned. "Detective Goren," Huang said with his hand out, "good to see you." Bobby took the doctor's hand and they shook.

"Detective," Stephens answered with a smile. Bobby looked at one, then the other.

"What are you two doing here?" Then he knew, nodding. "You're here to talk about me, aren't you?" His hand illustrated his understanding.

"Yes, detective, we are," Stephens replied. "We're going to talk with your captain and your partner." She watched him carefully. He seemed ok. "You agree that is a smart tactic, don't you?" He's ok so far.

Bobby looked at each of them. You could see him thinking. He began to nod slightly; his hands began to move in line with his thoughts. "Yeah, yeah that would be a smart thing to do. It would have been a smart thing to do before I really went nuts, huh?" He smiled broadly and took a two-step back and forth.

"You need to talk to my partner so she can tell you how screwed up I am. Ha, she'll probably tell you how she should get hazardous duty pay for having to put up with me." Bobby's hands were chopping away at the words. "And, and the captain will tell you how hard it was to get Eames to partner with me.

"You should have talked to them both before all this crap happened. It would have been a good idea. Would have been; so, how come you are just now talking to them?" He sounded genuinely interested; he wasn't being rhetorical.

Huang and Stephens looked at the tall man before them, each running an analysis on his mental state. Bobby's rant was not a rant at all. He spoke calmly, conversationally. His expressive affect was discordant with his immediate emotional state. It appeared he was mentally shutting down areas of affect. He was consciously preventing himself from feeling emotions that he perceived would get him into trouble. Bobby was in a bad way.

Huang responded first, "I'm glad you understand why we're here. I thought you would agree this is a good thing. You are right; we should have done this when your post trauma counseling began. Live and learn, right?"

Bobby looked steadily at each one. "Yeah, learn." He looked at the floor and then back up at them. "I like to learn. Ok, well you should get on. Go get the goods on Goren. It was good to see you again, Dr. Stephens, Dr. Huang." He smiled and stepped around them.

Huang looked up at Stephens. "Want to take a minute and talk about what just happened?"

"Let's talk in the captain's office. He's going to need to know how sick his detective is."

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"He was so drunk, Captain. I've never seen Goren drunk." Sledge was telling Deakins about Monday night.

"So you went and got him?" Deakins knew what he wanted to ask next, but was afraid of the answer. He kind of thought he knew, but didn't want to know for sure.

"Ok, I have to ask. Why did Goren call you? Why would he? You guys hate each other. Why you?"

Eames had been standing to the side, listening. Deakins told her to stay when she brought Sledge into his office. She looked at the floor. To his credit, Sledge did not look at her.

"I have no idea, sir. I was asleep, heard the phone, thought it was a wrong number and then I recognized his voice. I told him to put the bartender on the phone, found out where he was, got dressed, picked him up, took him home and sobered him up best I could." Sledge never broke eye contact. Deakins was impressed. He couldn't resist a slight smile.

"Well, in any case, Edward, you did good. Thanks for being the better man in this situation. Did you stay while he sobered up?"

"Yeah, I made some coffee and we sat and talked. Well, I listened. Goren went on about how miserable he was. You knew Gleason left him?"

Deakins did know this. "Yeah, he mentioned it yesterday. He didn't elaborate. Eames, do you know anything about it?"

She shook her head and said, "I just found out."

Deakins looked back at Sledge. "When did she leave?"

"I don't know, sir. He didn't say. He didn't say why she left, either. He kept going on about how he wanted things to be like they were before. I'm thinking he wanted Gleason to come home. Goren's a brilliant man, a top detective, but he's really a mess, Captain."

"I know, I know. I think you need to share this with Huang and Goren's counselor. That ok with you?"

"Sure."

"Ah, here they are now." Deakins opened the door and shook hands with Huang who introduced Dr. Stephens to everyone. Hands shook all around.

"Tell you what," Deakins said to the group, "let's move to the conference room. There is more room for all of us." Eames and Dr. Stephens stepped out and waited for the gentlemen. As a group, they moved across the area to the conference room. Bobby sat at his desk and watched the collection walk. Eames glanced his way, saw the look on his face, and her heart broke. He knows, she thought. Dear god, what he must be thinking.

Navicky finished unloading the eight boxes, scanned the bars on each one, and headed to the next delivery. He had kept the dock manager talking while Jenese jumped from the truck bed and headed to his vehicle. Navicky watched Jenese drive away.

Why did I ever get involved with this, he wondered. Greed, goddamn greed. Well, this is it. I'm going to get the paintings tonight, keep them at my place and hand them over to Jenese. I'm going to take my money and maybe head south. Get a place on the water. Keep my nose clean. No more getting involved in this kind of shit.

Navicky pulled up to a small clinic in a strip mall on the east side. He set the brake and hopped out with his reader. He walked around to the back, raised the overhead door, and hopped up into the bed. He dropped the dolly off the back edge, leaning it against the bumper. Navicky scanned the three small boxes and dropped them onto the dolly below. He hopped down, up righted the one with 'fragile, this side up' and pushed the dolly into the office.

Less than three minutes later, he lifted the dolly back into the bed, lowered the overhead door and walked back to the cab. He pulled open the door, stepped up and looked into Pangborn's face.

"Let's go." Pangborn was sitting in the passenger seat, hands crossed in his lap. "Come on, drive. You've got a timeline, don't you?"

Navicky couldn't believe it. He started the truck and off they went.

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Bobby could see the group at the conference table since his desk faced it. He knew they were talking about him. He didn't care. Well, he cared, but he was more curious than anything. He really felt good. He had just needed to talk with Gleason. That's all he had needed. Now he was fine.

She'll call tonight and we'll talk. I'll make her happy. I won't mess this up again. No way. I want things to be like they were. I want things to be like they were. I want things to be like they were. I want things to be like they were.

Bobby silently chanted this mantra while he ran a search on the shipping company – number nine on his to-do list. I want things to be like they were.

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Gleason sat for a long time on the edge of the bed after talking with Bobby. She was so sorry for leaving him. How cruel! I had no right to do that to him. He loves me. He loves me. He is a wreck. I am so sorry, love. I am sorry.

Slowly she showered and dressed. She pulled two singles from her wallet and set them on the desk for the housekeeper. I need to exchange some money, she told herself. She lugged her leather bag onto her shoulder and walked to the lift.

She turned left from the lift into the lobby and went straight to the desk.

"Good morning, Dr. Wintermantle. How can I help you?"

"Tell me, where can I exchange foreign currency? I have pounds and euros."

"Ah, good question. Let me find out for you. Just a minute." The young man stepped through the door behind the desk.

Gleason turned and looked across to the small open restaurant. A man in a suit and a woman in jeans made their way along the cold table, selecting breakfast fare. Couples sat at small tables. She missed Bobby with a pain she could feel. She knew they should be together, here at this hotel, eating breakfast, making love in the big bed upstairs.

"Dr. Wintermantle? Dr. Wintermantle?"

Gleason spun and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I was a million miles away." She smiled around her embarrassment.

The young man smiled back. "We don't exchange money here, but the bank on the corner of Maple and Hamlin does. You go out the door and to the right. It's about three blocks from here."

"Thank you. I need to pay for today, but I don't have enough American cash. I'll be back." She smiled and headed out. Maybe I'll get something to eat later. She didn't trust her tum.

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"Where are we going?" Navicky asked Pangborn.

"We are going to your next stop. And then the stop after that. And the one after that. We're going to empty this truck. Then, we're going to go to where you have the paintings stashed. And the-e-e-e-n, you are going to give me those paintings." Pangborn looked over at the driver.

"What about the money? You gonna pay me, right?"

"Am I going to pay you? You bet, pal. No problem. Look, I want to get this deal done so we can just be done and get on. Where are they?"

Navicky drove.

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	11. Chapter 11

60

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Chapter 11.

"How shall we do this?" Deakins asked the two psychiatrists.

"How about if we hear from Detectives Eames and Sledge first and they can get back to work?"

"Sledge, tell the doctors what you told me," Deakins said.

Sledge relayed, almost word for word, what he had told the captain. He included the news about Gleason leaving. Sledge ended with, "He said how he wanted things to be like they were before."

"What's odd about this is the fact that Goren should call Sledge in the first place." Deakins said, "They don't get along at all. I just find it strange that Goren should call Sledge."

Eames shifted in her seat. Sledge was a rock. "Who knows why he would call me. He was drunk. People do all kinds of things when they are drunk."

"That's true," Huang said. "Is there anything else you think might be relevant, detective? Any little detail of what he wants to be the same?"

Sledge thought back over what Bobby had said in his monologue. "Well, he talked about how he didn't know what had happened between him and Gleason; what he did to make her leave him. He said he didn't understand why the anger management classes didn't work. Sledge glanced at the beautiful black woman, "Uh, he said he didn't think his post trauma counseling had worked either."

Dr. Stephens smiled and said, "It appears it hasn't, detective."

Sledge continued, "He even said he didn't know why he still smoked after quitting a bunch of years ago. He mentioned that he thought he was drinking too much. I don't know how true that part is, though. I don't think he drank excessively with Gleason around. I can't see him doing that. Sledge looked at each of the psychiatrists. "I sure hope you can help him."

"Thanks, detective." Sledge pushed back from the table, stood, and slid the chair back in and left.

Bobby watched the tall man leave the conference room. Sledge glanced over at him. He stopped, thought a minute and walked over to Bobby's desk. Bobby's eyes never left him.

"Say, Goren, how are you?"

"I'm ok," he replied softly.

"Uh, in there, what's happening . . . this is a good thing. You know?" Sledge actually looked pained.

Bobby's eyes slid over to the conference room. "I know. Depending on what you said in there, I guess I should say 'thanks'; or, 'you sorry bastard, why'd you screw me like that?'" Bobby said it with a straight face; he was being sincere.

Sledge looked at the other man, and then threw his head back and laughed out loud. He put his hands on his chest and howled. Bobby watched the guy bend over laughing and smiled. Then he started to laugh as well. The two men laughed until they teared up.

"Oh! Oh, god, Goren! You are either one crazy bastard or you are healthier than all of us. Oh, man!" Slowly they regained their composure. "Say, want to get out of here and get some lunch?"

Bobby considered it. "Yeah, I could eat."

He stood, and the two men headed for the lifts.

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Everyone at the table turned and looked at the sound of Sledge laughing. They watched Bobby start to laugh, watched him stand and watched the two men head out. They watched Sledge clap Bobby on the back in a good fellow kind of way. No one said anything for a moment.

"Those two don't get along, you say?" Dr. Stephens asked.

"So I thought," Deakins responded. He shook his head and then asked, "Eames, tell us how he's been lately."

"He's only been back two weeks but I've noticed a difference."

"How so?" asked Huang.

"Well, his temper, certainly. Everyone knows Bobby has a temper; but before, he'd only go off as a last resort. Now, he flies off at the slightest provocation. Actually, he doesn't even need to be provoked. It's as if he has a hair trigger. He seems angry all the time. He's preoccupied."

Eames relayed the event at the gallery the preceding day with Canvettelli and the tantrum outside. She told about the smashed cup in the coffee room yesterday morning. And, how he was short with her on a number of occasions.

"When did this behavior begin to manifest?" Stephens asked.

Eames thought a moment. "I have to say right after the shooting. That night at hospital, he was an absolute wreck. Everyone thought Gleason was going to die. The tension was sky high. He lost it in the men's room, punched the wall and broke his hand."

Eames looked at her hands in her lap, her voice softened, "He was so full of anger at me. He blamed me for siding with Sledge. Sledge didn't think we should pick up Elliott Baughman and I agreed. He was angry with me for convincing him not to pick up Elliott Baughman, the shooter." She looked up at the others, "I think that anger consumed him. I think it permeated every fiber of his being and it was hard to let it go. Maybe this is the residual effect from that anger." She looked back down at her hands.

"I also think things were different between he and Gleason during her, and his, recovery. She was so sick when she left hospital. He looked after her. Their relationship may have changed. Sledge said Bobby said he wanted things like they were before. Maybe he's angry at the way his life is right now. Maybe he's frustrated.

"And now Gleason has left him. He's probably feeling lost, out of control." She looked up and saw the other three thinking about all she had said.

"Do you have any idea when Gleason left or why? Do you know where she went?" Stephens asked.

"No, I didn't even know she was gone. What I do know, is that Bobby loves her like none other. Whatever he did to drive her away must have been terrible."

"Why do you think he did something?" asked Huang.

Eames didn't say anything for a moment. "I, I just figured the way he's been here, maybe he flew off at her." She thought again. "Or, maybe she just left, for no reason. I don't see that, though. They seemed dedicated to each other."

"Did you socialize with them during their recovery?" asked Deakins.

"No. It's just a feeling I guess. He never really spoke of her at work. I spoke with her briefly once on the phone and had one short conversation with her on the Saturday before the shooting when they came in to drop off some evidence. You could see the feelings between them, the way they stood together."

"Anything else you can tell us?" Deakins asked.

Eames shook her head, "No, that's all I can recall."

"Well, thank you, Detective. You've given us a great insight into how he is. Thanks, Detective." Huang said.

Alex stood and left the conference room.


	12. Chapter 12

73

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Ch 12

"So, what do you think?" Deakins asked.

Huang looked at Stephens and nodded. She took a deep breath and began, "Well, Dr. Huang and I ran into Detective Goren in the hallway on the way in. He figured out why we were here and I watched his affect. He was rational, calm. Listening specifically to what he was saying – the words he used – and watching his body language, however, makes me think he's working extremely hard to stay in control.

"Maintaining that level of conscious control is exhausting. One way of alleviating the draining nature of that effort is to shut down. The brain will protect its owner by removing the unpleasantness of a situation or event by numbing the interactions. In other words, if Detective Goren doesn't want to lose his cool in a situation or when interacting with a certain individual, his brain will anesthetize his emotions in that situation or with that person. He'll develop what we call 'flat affect'. He'll neither feel nor show an emotional response – good or bad." She looked at Huang, "What do you think?"

Huang thought a minute and then said, "I agree completely. Goren is repressing any natural, spontaneous emotional response."

"How does that affect him? Will he still be able to do his work?" Deakins asked.

"His cognition is in no way affected. He'll remain as smart and deductive as ever. His emotions, however, are beginning to shut down. He'll feel no pleasure, joy, anger. He'll be a machine, feeling nothing," Stephens answered.

"Jesus." Deakins looked at the floor. "Can it be stopped?"

"Yes, yes. I think he's only just begun to shut down. The fact that he and Detective Sledge were laughing out there, indicates that he still has some appropriate affect. However, he needs to get into counseling right away. He may need medication as well." Stephens looked at Huang.

"I would guarantee he needs meds of some sort. Do you think he'd be amenable to that idea, Jim?"

"Goren's smart. He knows how medication has helped his mother. I think he'd agree without hesitation."

"Good.

"I'm not sure, but I think he's aware of his problems with his escalating temper. That will be an explicit conversation point once his counseling resumes. We need to know to what degree he's self-aware." Dr. Stephens looked to Dr. Huang and said, "Perhaps you and I can take a few minutes to generate a list of a discussion points. I don't want to miss anything."

Huang agreed and said to Deakins, "Would you excuse us, Jim. We can't discuss the details of Goren's therapy with you beyond what we've already done. You understand."

Deakins rose and said, "Of course, of course. I'm glad we did this. I need him to be well. Dr. Stephens, it was a pleasure meeting you. George thanks for everything." Deakins shook hands with each of them, turned and closed the door behind him.

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Bobby and Sledge ate at a sandwich place down the block. They walked in silence, found a table, ordered and sat quietly for a few minutes.

"So, how're you doing, really?" Sledge asked.

Bobby looked down at the table. "I don't know. Ok, I guess." He looked out at the other tables to the right. "Actually, everything pretty much sucks." He turned and looked at Sledge.

Sledge had a flash of fear that Bobby was going to go off on him. He didn't say anything; he waited. When Bobby looked away without attacking, Sledge said, "Why do you think that is?"

Bobby took a deep breath and said, "Eames looks at me like I'm a psychopath. She's afraid of me. I can't control my temper anymore and I don't know why. It scares me. I go nuts and then look at what I've done and I don't remember having done it."

"Man that sounds like something you should tell your shrink."

"I suppose I will."

Their food arrived and they dug in. They ate in comfortable silence. Then Bobby said, "It's funny, you and me being here, having lunch."

Sledge looked up and smiled. "Yeah, who'd of thought that would ever happen?"

They ate in thoughtful silence.

"You know how wrong you were, back then," Bobby said with a half smile.

Sledge swallowed and wiped his mouth, "Oh, come on, Goren. I was right and well within my bounds to do what I did," Sledge replied.

"No, you were wrong to do it. It was dirty, what you did and the way you did it."

"I did no such thing. If she hadn't been looking for someone else, we'd not be having this conversation. Besides, I saved you all the heartache of having to put up with her carousing. I saved you from a broken heart. Hell, I did you a favor," Sledge offered.

Bobby chewed, thought, swallowed and then said, "Yeah, I guess I can see that now. She _was_ pretty free with herself. Good, but way too easy." Bobby thought a minute. "You know what, Sledge, I gave her to you," he said with a smile.

"If you gave her to me, Goren, then why the hell were you so pissed all this time? Huh?"

Bobby smiled and said, "Because you are easy to be pissed at."

Sledge shook his head.

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"Will you continue as his therapist?" Huang asked Stephens.

She looked down at the tabletop, hesitated and then looked up and said, "I don't know. Obviously, I missed all that he wasn't telling me. How could I not know he was in a serious relationship? I accepted what he told me without pursuing confirmation. I wonder what else there is." Stephens looked away.

"Alice, you have to realize what kind of person Goren is. He is not typical in any sense of the word. He would have withheld from anyone. You have done nothing wrong; you missed what anyone else would have missed. Goren is sly; he chose not to reveal. He has a convincing nature. He knows psychology like no other layman. Don't beat yourself up over this." Huang watched the woman consider this.

He continued, "I wish we would have done this at the outset of his counseling. It's like Goren said when we arrived, 'it would have been smart to do this before he went nuts.' I imagine he expected this to happen at the beginning of his sessions. He was probably surprised it didn't."

"I understand everything you're saying, George. All of that is an explanation, but it is not an excuse. I needed to be alert. I failed to pursue. That's one of the first tenets of therapy – 'pursue to confirm and expand.' I have to be honest; my faith in my ability has been shaken."

Huang reached over and put his hand on hers. "Let's work up a list of discussion points. I suggest you begin his treatment and see how it goes. You now have tremendous insight into the man; it would be a shame to waste it."

Stephens smiled slightly and turned a page in her notebook. "You're right. Let's make that list."

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"You spend your whole day, riding around this city in this truck taking boxes to people? Jesus. What a way to make a living." Pangborn was getting bored. They'd driven around for an hour and had made three stops. "How many more do you have to do?"

"All the rest. I don't stop until the truck is empty. I may not finish until close to six tonight. Are you going to ride around with me all day? Don't you have something to do, somewhere to be?" Navicky was hoping to get rid of the thug.

Pangborn settled back in the passenger seat as best as he could. He crossed his arms. "Nope, I've got nothing to do but get those crates." They rode in silence for a while. Then Pangborn asked, "Where _did_ you put those paintings? Why don't we head on over that way, wherever it is and we just do this now? Ya think? I think that's a good idea. Let's get going."

Navicky thought about just doing it. Just go and give them over, get his money and be done. Then, what about Jenese, what do I tell him?

"I need to finish these deliveries. I'll get them after I'm done with work. Is there somewhere I can drop you off until later? Or, are you going to waste a whole day riding around with me?"

"Oh, I'm sticking close to you, my man. Like I said, I got nothing to do but get those canvases."

Shit, thought Navicky.

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"Thank you," Gleason said with a smile as she slid the envelope of American dollars into her leather bag and zipped it shut. Boy, the exchange rate is really poor, she thought. I could use my credit card now. I could, since I've spoken with Bobby. He won't be looking for me. I'm not hiding. I think I'll use my card rather than lose on the exchange. That's what I'll do. I should have thought of that before I exchanged. I'm just not thinking. What's wrong with me?

She walked out of the bank and headed back to the hotel. She walked slowly, enjoying the warm sun and cool air. It felt good to get out and walk. She used to walk all the time at home. She missed it. It was hard to walk in New York – so many people. Not like here, it's nice here.

What am I going to do? Bobby will never, ever leave New York. I wouldn't ask him. I could commute. We could alternate weekends. That might be ok. Expensive, but ok. What is he going to say?

Gleason put it out of her mind. The day was too nice to fret.

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Bobby sat at his desk thinking. She's in Chicago. She can't come home until Friday night. Why Chicago? Why Friday? Why do people go to another city and have a time constraint? Meetings, conferences, appointments. She's not speaking there, she didn't mention any meetings. Appointments . . . like an interview.

He entered the key words, 'ancient study programs' and hit enter. A relatively short list of results came up. The first two items listed were Brookbine University, New York and Northwestern University, Chicago. She's interviewing at Northwestern. She's in Evanston.

He didn't know what to make of this information. He wasn't angry, or even worried. He actually felt nothing. Oh, this feels good not to feel anything, he said to himself. What he did feel was curious. Why is she interviewing there? She has a job here in New York. Why would she leave; unless she really is leaving me. Bobby began to tease out the threads of what this meant. She is leaving me. She's moving to Chicago. She is leaving me. She is leaving.

It was a little hard to draw a breath.

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"Have you checked out the ceramicist in Baltimore?" Jenese said into the phone. He was sitting in his car outside the gallery.

"I'm telling you to check him out. He does some nice stuff. He has shows in two galleries. One of his pieces went for five hundred thousand last month in Washington. Get on a plane and see what he's got. . . . I don't care. This gig is ending tonight. We need to have something else to do. . . . I know New York is closer to Baltimore than St. Louis is. I'm working. I have to get the canvases and then get out. Just go and get us a place to stay. Christ, all of this should already be in place. What the hell have you been doing? . . . I told you I--don't--care. . . . Just do it, goddamn it! I'm going to start driving tonight after I get the paintings. You better have a place for us when I get there."

Jenese flipped shut the phone and sat for a minute, calming himself. I am surrounded by a bunch of fucking idiots. Now this one.

He stepped out of his car and walked up the block to Canvettelli's gallery.

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Eames returned from lunch and sat across from her partner. He was doing something on the computer. He didn't even look up.

"Did you and Sledge have a good lunch?" she ventured.

He either ignored her or didn't hear her. She waited and then picked up the phone. She spoke with the insurance company representative and he agreed to come in at nine tomorrow morning to discuss the details of pay out in light of the artist's death.

Next, Eames called Canvettelli to see if he had located the broker information. He'd said he'd call her today with it. Yeah, right.

"Hello, may I speak with Mr. Canvettelli? Detective Eames. He said he'd have some information for me today. . . . Yes, thank you."

Bobby finally looked up. Then he went straight back to whatever he was doing.

The sales associate of indeterminate gender knocked softly on the closed office door. "Mr. C? That woman detective from yesterday is on the phone. What should I tell her?"

Jesus Christ! Can you believe it? Jenese pulled his good-bar from Canvettelli's mouth and began to put himself back together. Canvettelli, looked stricken and whined, "No, let me. I want to finish you." Then louder, "Pat, tell her I'll call her back in five minutes."

Jenese put his palm on the top of the younger man's head. "No, take the call. Tell her what she wants and be rid of her. Go on. I'm not going anywhere. Go."

"Pat, wait. Tell her I'll be right there."

"Get up," Jenese helped Canvettelli to his feet. "What does she want? Do you know?"

"Oh, I don't remember. Come with me. Tell me what to say. I don't know anything. Why don't you talk with her?"

"Go get this done. Then come back so I can come." Jenese kissed him, wiped the other man's mouth and rubbed himself through his pants.

Canvettelli, opened the office door and pranced to the phone. "Hello, detective," he said with distain. "What can I do for you? I've told you everything I know."

"Mr. Canvettelli, I'm glad I caught you. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. You said you would call today with the contact information for the broker in St. Louis. I thought I'd save you the trouble. Do you have it for me?"

Canvettelli had completely forgotten he'd told her he'd call with the information. Shit! He spun and looked back at the closed office door. He needed Jenese to tell him what to say. I don't know what to tell her. Oh, Jenny, come here, come here.

"Mr. Canvettelli? Are you there? Mr. Canvettelli? How about if I come on down to the gallery. Perhaps that would be better. Mr. Canvettelli?"

"No! No, you don't need to come down here. I, I have the information in my car. Let me call you back in five minutes. I'll just run out to the car and get it. Ok? Thanks." He hung up.

Eames looked at the receiver. He doesn't know anything, she thought. Someone else is behind him. Someone else is pulling the strings. Eames debated about just heading down there. She wished she could talk with Bobby about it. He'd know what to do. Bobby was immersed in something and she was afraid to interrupt him.


	13. Chapter 13

76

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Ch 13

Gleason returned to the hotel and put the rest of her stay on her American Express card. She went up to the room and put the money envelope in the bottom of her carpetbag, under the stiff bottom. She went to the bathroom and considered getting some lunch. She was hungry; she'd not eaten anything and it was way past noon. No, wait and get something there, she said to herself.

She returned to the lobby and asked for a cab.

"Bobby, do you want to go over where we are on this painter case?"

He looked up and said flatly, "Ok, here or in the conference room?"

"Either place. Do you have a lot of information?"

"Not so much. Let's do it here."

At this point, Bobby would usually pull his chair around to her side of the desks. He didn't this time. He gathered up the files and loose papers, organized them, opened his notebook, flipped back a few pages and looked at her.

"What have you got?" he asked. Bobby looked back down at his notebook.

"I want to send a couple of uniforms to the gallery to pick up Canvettelli first thing tomorrow morning. I want to interview him to get the name of the St. Louis broker out of him. He keeps putting me off. What do you think about bringing him in?"

"Yeah, sure." He looked up and asked, "What else?"

Eames stared at him for a half moment, took a deep breath and continued, "The insurance representative is coming in early in the morning. I want to talk with him about how the value changes since the artist is dead, what the procedure is, that kind of thing."

Bobby wasn't looking at Eames; his eyes were down, elbows on the table, hands up. The fingers of his right hand massaged his left knuckles. He did it unknowingly. "Be sure to ask him how often this happens. Find out if there are patterns of apparent deception in shipping related claims." Bobby offered these offhandedly, as though he really didn't care.

Eames added those two items to her list. She asked, "Did you have a chance to investigate the shipping company for previous claims?"

"Yeah, I did." His hands moved to a folder on his desk. He shuffled what looked like computer printouts, found what he was looking for and said, "There's nothing out of the usual; general breakage claims, a few lost items, but nothing on the value scale of these paintings. I don't see the company perpetrating this heist, someone on the inside, maybe, but not the company. What about the driver?" He glanced up.

Eames nodded, "Joe Navicky. I want to bring him in as well. I'll call Bill Jackson, the supervisor out there and have him reschedule Navicky for tomorrow. I'll send a couple of uniforms out to pick him up. It looks like we're going to have three or four interviews tomorrow. Are you going to be around?"

Bobby looked at her and then said, "You know I'm not allowed to interview. Deakins doesn't trust me. You don't trust me." He looked down and was quiet a moment. Eames said nothing. Then, softly, Bobby added, "Hell, I don't trust me." His head tilted to the left and he pursed his lips. He didn't look up.

Eames fought tears. She wanted to go around the desks and hold him. Tell him everything was going to be ok. She wanted to kiss him, make him forget his pain. Make him forget Gleason. She sat and looked at her broken partner.

"Bobby . . . I –," she stopped because she had no words.

He looked up, cleared his throat, and said, "I, I investigated the painter on line. I found nothing out of the ordinary." Bobby took another folder and opened it, spreading out the pages. "He would probably have died within a year or two, according to Rodgers; AIDS. I told you my theory about this being a lovers' spat gone wrong. I'm not sure anymore. I think this is a real, old fashioned, art heist." He looked at her. His face was a mask.

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Navicky had three more stops until he would be empty. Christ, then Pangborn would want those canvasses. Yeah, but he'll pay me. Then all this shit will be done.

"Uh, three more stops and I'm done."

"Well, thank Christ. Jesus, what a boring job you have. I could never do this kind of work." Pangborn looked out the window. He moved his hands to his pockets. He'd not touched anything inside or outside of the truck. "So, Joey, where'd you stash the paintings, huh?"

"Let's talk about payment, first. You got the cash? I don't see a bag. How're we gonna do this, huh? Where's the cash?"

"Joey, Joey, Joey. I am disappointed in you. You think I'm going to cheat you? You are breaking my heart, my man. I am an honorable thief. Last of a rare breed. You do not need to worry about me. I will pay you fair and square. This job could not have been done without your expertise. I pay for quality work. And you, sir, do quality work. Not to worry." They rode in silence for a few minutes. "So, Joey, where'd you stash the paintings?

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"Mr. Jackson, please," Eames called the shipping company to ask that Navicky not leave the lot in the morning.

"Hello, Mr. Jackson, it's Detective Eames. I spoke with you earlier. Yes. I am going to send two uniformed officers over to your lot in the morning to pick up Joe Navicky. . . . No, no sir, he's not in any trouble. I just want to bring him in for questioning. . . . I'm calling to ask you to schedule him in a way that he'll be available for pick up. . . . No, don't tell him why; just make sure he's at the lot. What time does he usually show up? . . . I see. Great. Thanks Mr. Jackson. I appreciate your cooperation. Bye."

Well, that went well, she thought. Now, to arrange for Canvettelli's pick up. Ha, what an event that will be.

Eames called the one-three and Midtown South to arrange for the pickups in each of their jurisdictions. She began to organize the questions for each of the three interviews. This will be strange, interviewing without Bobby, she thought.

Bobby was the closer. He always got the witness or suspect to peel back layers, reveal what they didn't even know they knew. He could see into their minds, know what they knew and were trying to hide. He'd be watching her through the glass. She wanted to do this right. She read and reread her questions.

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"I've got to go out tonight and I can't change it." Jesus Christ this gay boy is such a whiner, Jenese thought. "Stop whining, for chrissakes! Jesus, you make me crazy."

Canvettelli, pouted in the chair in his office. "Let me finish you, then." Canvettelli reached out his arm and waggled his fingers at the other man. "I want to finish you. Please. If I can't have you tonight, I want you now." He opened his mouth and waved his tongue at Jenese.

Jenese could use a good come right now. He was tense. Tonight's the night, and then this one is all over. Get the art and head to Baltimore. Tillman had better be on a plane right now. He had better have a place for us when I get there. I hope to God he's checked out that ceramicist. God, he was tired of relying on other people.

Although, Jenese could always rely on Canvettelli's mouth. Yessiree, this boy could take away tension. "All right, suck me good. And I'm not pulling out when I come." He crossed the short distance, undoing his pants as he walked.

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Gleason got in the cab and said, "The Sculpture Garden on Clark Street, please."

The driver pulled away from the curb and Gleason settled back. She was tired and hungry. She wanted to visit the Sculpture Garden on Northwestern's campus and then would walk to the Norris Student Center for some lunch. After lunch, she was going to check out the Shakespeare Garden. What a wonderful way to spend a day. She was excited.

Gleason was surprised at how hungry she was. And tired. Maybe she'd just visit the one garden and then eat. She really should have had something this morning. She watched the town flash by outside the window. The colors, the shapes, flashing by, smearing by.

Oh, oh no. She wasn't so hungry now as queasy. Gleason forced her lips closed. Oh, no. Don't be sick. Suddenly she was hot, sweaty. Oh, no, no. She needed to go back. Back to the hotel.

"Driver, excuse me. Driver." The world began to spin as Gleason tried to sit up to speak over the back of the front seat. "Driver . . . ," her voice failed her as she fell back against the seat. The driver noticed the movement and saw her tilt back. She was white as a ghost.

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you all right?" He put on his blinker, pulled to the curb and put it in park. "Lady, are you ok?" He turned around and looked at her with genuine concern.

"Please, take me back to the hotel." Her voice was a whisper.

"Yes, of course." The driver had an unopened bottle of water on the seat beside him. "Lady, here, maybe you should have a drink of water. Let me open this for you." He cracked open the bottle and handed it over the back of the seat.

It was all she could do to reach for it. "Thank you," she breathed. She lifted it to her mouth and took a tiny sip. That was a mistake. The water hit her empty stomach and sought its way back up. Gleason clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.

"Oh, lady, oh, are you gonna be sick? Don't be sick in my cab. Please. Here, you want to stand outside and get some air? Huh?"

Gleason shook her head no. "I'll be ok. Let's just go back to the hotel, ok?"

"Yeah, sure, ok. Here we go." The driver pulled back into traffic and headed back to the hotel.

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"Uh, be sure and ask the insurance rep about how value is determined." Bobby said to Eames glancing over at her. He'd been deep in thought for several minutes. His fingers punctuated his words. "And, and ask him why his company, Westmark Equities, agreed to take the policy." He was thinking through the interview.

He swallowed, his head leaned left and his hands chopped at air, "Uh, then, then find out if any riders were attached to the original policy. Find out who purchased the policy. Sometimes the broker will have a policy in addition to the buyer. You should have asked him about the broker already. That would have given you the broker's name. Should have done that. Maybe the broker and buyer are in cahoots. They may both profit by the insurance claim. If they are working together, they stand to double their profit."

He said all of this without looking directly at Eames. She wrote as fast as she could. Boy, I wish Bobby would be there with me. This is just the kind of thing he was so good doing.

The remark about what she should have done stung. But, he was right. Had things been right, he would have gone ahead and just done that. They would have divvied up the tasks. Things were right. Would they ever be right again?

"This is good. What else?"

She watched Bobby think. His head moved. He pressed his lips tight. She watched his eyes scan nothing. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders. "Uh yeah, find out what other artists they insure. And, if they've ever done business with this shipping company." He looked up at her. "That's all I've got. The rest is up to you. Don't go easy. Be strong. Suspect everyone." He looked down again."

He really wanted to do these interviews. Eames was not an interrogator. She was fine at a scene, gathering superficial, obvious bits of information. He preferred to have her do that first layer. He wanted to be free to examine the body, the scene. Even the second layer was ok for her to glean. He'd always been in the background for those second layer interviews. He would be free to wander, scope the home or workplace, the places where the second layer usually took place. But he was always listening, always listening. Eames missed so much. Christ she was nothing but a crack shot. He put up with her because she put up with him. No one else would.

He would watch through the glass tomorrow. They would have to work out a signal for her to leave the interview room and come get direction. Shit. He hated playing those games. She was such a fucking pawn, so goddamn weak. Stupid bitch. Whoa, what's going on here, he asked himself. Why are you getting so steamed at Eames? Knock it off, he told himself. He felt himself getting angry. At nothing. He felt it building. Christ, what's happening? He stood up. I need to get out of here. He looked at his watch, three twenty-five.

Two hours till she calls. Suddenly his mind was clear. Oh, that's better. He exhaled audibly and he sat again.

Eames watched his face darken, she saw him stand, and check his watch and then exhale. What's he doing? He sat and looked at nothing. Cold fear ran down Eames' back. She ventured, "Bobby, you ok?"

He looked up at her as if surprised she was there. "Yeah, yeah. I'm ok." He tilted his head left and began to shut down his computer. "Look, I'm going to head out. I'm, I'm going to the range if Deakins asks." He closed the lid on his laptop, stood, reached for his jacket, turned and walked away.

Eames covered her face and couldn't stop the tears.


	14. Chapter 14

81

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Ch 14

"Lady, we're here. Lady?" The driver pulled up in front of the hotel. He jumped out and ran around to the rear passenger door. He yanked it open and bent in.

Gleason sat with eyes closed. "Lady, you ok?"

"Yes, give me a minute, please." She struggled to get her bag from her shoulder. "Here, here, let me . . . let me pay you." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Loomis, the doorman, walked to the cab and asked, "Everything ok here?"

The driver said, "No, no. This lady is sick." He turned and looked at Loomis." I picked her up here and she was fine." He turned back and looked at Gleason. "We headed to the university and she asked to come back. She looks really weak. Lady, you ok?"

Loomis bent over and peeked through the window of the open back door. "Dr. Wintermantle, hey, what's wrong? Can I get you anything? Huh?"

"I'll be fine. I just haven't eaten anything today. I think I'm just weak. I'll be fine when I eat something." She was practically gasping as she said all of this.

"Hey, wait here. Leave her in your cab for a minute, ok?" Without waiting, Loomis dashed back into the lobby and jogged to the small pantry/store beside the business office. The hotel had no real gift shop. Rather, a small, open closet sat recessed to the left of the business office. It held shelves bearing chips, microwave popcorn, pens, and such. A cooler offered cold bottles of various sodas, juices and microwaveable goods. Loomis grabbed a bottle of orange juice and hurried back to the curb.

Antonio stepped from the office behind the front desk and saw his colleague dash by. He stepped around the desk and looked out the glass doors. He saw a cab with the driver and Loomis looking into the back seat. He went to see if he could help.

Bobby decided to head to the gym instead of the range. He didn't trust himself with a weapon, even though his own sat locked in the glove box of his vehicle. He changed his clothes and found a free treadmill. He upped the incline and ran. Hard. He ran. And ran. In his mind, he saw himself running away from Eames, Deakins, and Richie. He ran away from the office. He ran away from Carmel Ridge. He ran from his mother. He ran from everyone and everything that pulled on him. Sweat poured from him. He sucked air. Still he ran. Hard.

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"Where's your partner?" Deakins asked Eames, nodding to the empty seat.

"He said he was going to the range."

"So, anything new since this morning?" Deakins asked.

Eames didn't know exactly how to respond. "Not really. He's still different. Odd. Well, more odd than usual. He seems to be in another world a lot of the time."

Deakins noticed her eyes. She's been crying, he thought. "Alex, we're going to get him well. He's got a lot of support. I am certain he'll be fine. It's going to take time, but Bobby will be himself. You need to believe that."

Eames looked up at her boss. "I know."

"Why don't you head out? This has been one hell of a day, huh?"

"That'd be nice. Thanks, I will." Deakins nodded and walked back to his office.

Eames stood and began to organize the papers and folders on her desk. She glanced Sledge's way but he was on the phone. She decided to go to the ladies room. She'd catch his eye when she returned.

Deakins watched his tiny sharpshooter stand and saw her glance over to Sledge's desk. The big guy was on the phone and missed her look. Where's she going, he wondered. His phone rang and he turned to answer it.

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Jenese felt good. He was rid of that skanky bitch, Sarah. He was rid of Canvettelli. Ha, and neither one had a clue they would never again enjoy the things Jenese could do. Fuck you both, 'cause I'm not gonna anymore. Jenese smiled lasciviously.

He was on his way to get the art and then on his way to Baltimore. A new scam, new money, new pieces of ass. Yep, life is good, he thought. He was looking forward to seeing Tillman again. Jesus, what that man could do with Jenese's lower parts. He twitched with anticipation.

Now, where the fuck is that big green beetle of a truck? Where are you? Come out; come out, wherever you are . . .

Jenese turned right and, son-of-a-bitch, there he is! Jenese couldn't believe it. He pulled up two cars behind Navicky's truck. Soon, soon, I'm gonna be one rich bastard.

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Bobby slowed on the treadmill. He was soaked with sweat. The muscles in his legs quivered. Finally, he stopped and set one hand on each of the side rails. He leaned with his head down, breathing hard. His mind was perfectly clear. Oh, that was good! Yes, so good. His breathing slowed and he stood upright, he checked his watch. Yeah, I've got time, he thought.

Bobby wiped his face and neck with his towel and, when he could trust his legs, he moved to the free weights. He would increase his reps by three each set. He would increase the number of sets as well. He didn't need to increase the weight; he needed to be able to go longer, more times. He smiled inwardly at the alternative context for what he just said to himself. Gleason will call tonight. She will. She will call.

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Eames returned from the ladies' room. Deakins saw her through the glass walls of his office. He saw her look straight over at Sledge's desk. Deakins stood and walked around his desk to see what Sledge was doing. Ah, ha! He saw Sledge look over at Eames. He watched the other man watch her. Eames went to her desk, stood and began to put away papers and folders. Deakins' eyes moved back to Sledge. He's watching her, he thought to himself. Uh huh, I thought so. Deakins watched Eames begin to shut down her computer. He glanced back at Sledge. Son-of-a-gun, Sledge is closing up shop as well. Boy, I had a hunch. But this confirms it. Eames and Sledge, huh? He shook his head and smiled slightly.

Deakins always thought Eames had feelings for Goren. Her partner was a good-looking man. They got along, of course. But he just couldn't see Bobby with Eames. She was not his type. Gleason, now Gleason was Bobby's type. Beautiful, smart, cultured. Goren was a lucky man to have such a wonderful woman. He hoped that whatever had happened between them could be fixed. She was good for him.

Deakins had been taken with the good professor as well that Wednesday morning when she'd shown up for her presentation. But, he had Angie; and, he was a good husband. He'd never.

Eames and Sledge. I guess stranger things have happened. He shook his head and went to his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed his wife's number.

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"Ok, that's the last one," Navicky said, hopping back into the cab.

"Thank God!" Pangborn said with feeling. "Ok, now," he clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. He turned in his seat and looked at the other man, "Here's what happens next. You're going to drop me off at your vehicle. You're going to return this bug green parcel hearse of yours and meet me at your car. You are going to drive me to my car and leave yours. Then, my good man, I am going to drive us both to wherever you have stashed the paintings. We're going to get the goods, drive you back to your vehicle, I'm going to pay you, and we'll never see each other again, God willing. Sound like a plan?"

Navicky thought it through. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll be glad when this is over." He put the truck in gear and headed to the shipping lot.

Jenese kept two cars between them.

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"Dr. Wintermantle! What's wrong? Move," Antonio shoved the driver out of the way. Loomis stepped back as well.

Gleason opened her eyes and smiled at Antonio. "I'm ok, I just haven't eaten Antonio. I'll be ok. Here, help me out of the cab, would you?"

"No, no. You stay put." Loomis held out the bottle of orange juice.

Antonio took it, unscrewed the cap and held it out to her with, "Now just a sip. You're going to feel like you're going to throw it back up, but hold onto it. It will stay. Just a sip."

She took the bottle and took a sip. Oh, no! She clamped her lips shut and put a hand over her mouth. Her eyes slammed shut and she gagged. Twice.

"Oh, no, Lady! Let's get her out of there, ok?" the driver suggested with more than mild concern.

"No, she'll be ok. It will just take a few minutes," Antonio replied. "Dr. Wintermantle, are you all right? You ok?"

Gleason nodded and lowered her hand.

"Take another little sip. Just a sip. Slowly." He watched her take another sip. Gleason sipped with eyes closed. "That's it. Good. Better?"

Gleason nodded and carefully took another sip. She wasn't so queasy now. The orange juice was sweet and cold. Bobby loves orange juice, she thought. She took another sip, more of a drink. There, better.

"Oh, Antonio, Loomis, thank you. Thank you."

"Just sit for a moment. Finish the juice. Then we'll get you up to your room. Drink it slowly." Antonio fussed over her. Loomis went to another cab that had pulled up and saw to those people. Her cab driver stood watching.

Gleason took another sip of juice and reached for her bag. She removed her wallet and took out two twenties. She replaced her wallet and handed the money out to the driver.

"Here, please take this. I've caused you so much trouble. Let me pay for the fare and your kindness."

"Oh, no. Lady, no, no. I'm not taking anything. You were sick. I did what any one would do. No, no," the driver put up both hands and backed away. She saw Bobby in that move.

"Please, I insist. Let me do this. You have been so kind. Please."

The driver just shook his head. Gleason let her hand fall to her lap; she didn't have the strength to argue. She took another drink of juice. "I think I should go inside."

Both men reached for her, Loomis hovered in the back. She reached up and put her hand on the back of the front seat to boost herself out. Her fingers dropped the currency onto the front seat. The driver was a good, good man.

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Bobby finished his reps and his biceps quivered and hurt. He felt good. He checked the time and saw that he didn't have time for anything else. He stood, threw his towel around his neck and returned the weights. Then he headed for the locker-room. Gleason would call in a little more than an hour. His stomach quivered as well. She's going to call me. She will. He smiled.

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Navicky dropped Pangborn at his car in the employee car park. "I've got to go check out and then I'll be back. It might take half hour or so. I'll be back."

Pangborn leaned against the driver's door of Navicky's car. He crossed his arms. Poor son-of-a-bitch, he's clueless. Thinks I'm going to pay him. What a sap. Now I know what they mean buy 'taking candy from a baby.'

Pangborn thought through how it would play out. Wish I knew where those goddamn paintings were. He shifted to the other leg and put his hands in his pockets. He was in no hurry. It would all be over in about an hour.

What the hell, what's he doing? Jenese watched the truck head into the employee car park and trundle over to Navicky's beat up Honda. He pulled to the curb and got out, looking through the chain link fence. Who the fuck is that? Jenese saw a man hop from the cab, turn and look back up inside. The guy nodded, leaned back against Navicky's car and the truck lumbered away.

Jesus Christ, that must be the other taker he was talking about. Son-of-a-bitch, now what? Jenese looked at his watch. He drove around the block and parked down the street from the employee car park. He sat and thought over what to do. Fuck, now he'd have to off them both. Complications, nothing was ever easy. Damn!


	15. Chapter 15

86

Aligned Design

Ch 15

Antonio helped Gleason from the car. He took one arm and Loomis took the other. They carried her as though she was their hundred-year-old Gran. "Please, I can walk." She tried to shrug them off as kindly as she could without offending them. "Really. I am fine now. Please." She stopped and turned to the cab driver still standing by the open back door. "Thank you again. You are very kind. Thank you."

The cabbie nodded and smiled. He turned and shut the door, walked around to the driver's door and got in. He waved to the three standing on the walk and pulled away. It was nearly two hours before he found Gleason's gift.

Navicky turned in his reader, punched out and went to his locker. He took the small duffle bag from the bottom, unzipped it and peeked inside. Yep, all set; hope this will hold all the money. He zipped shut the bag and shut and locked his locker.

He was passing through the office area when Sarah said, "Hey Joe, Bill wants to see you before you leave. Hang on a minute, will you? I'll call him." Sarah lifted the phone, punched buttons and said, "Bill to the office, please. Bill." As earlier, her voice blared across the shipping lot and areas beyond. Navicky smiled at the woman.

Son-of-a-bitch, thought Navicky. Put me behind with that jackass waiting for me. I'm on the way to riches and the boss wants to see me? Talk about timing.

"Please, boys, I am fine. Let me walk." The two men let go of her arms but walked beside her ready to catch her if she stumbled or fell. They walked with her to the lifts. "What would I do without you two? Thank you for looking out for me." She smiled warmly at them both.

"I'm going to send up some soup for you. Just a light broth. You eat it all, ok. You need to have liquids. I imagine you are dehydrated, too. Why didn't you eat today?"

She looked at the floor. "I don't know, Antonio. It was foolish of me. I thought I would eat at the university. Time got away from me." She looked up at the sweet man in front of her, "That broth sounds good. Do you think I could have some rolls with it? I have this thing for bread recently. And lots of butter? I am really hungry now."

"Do you need anything from a drugstore, Dr. Wintermantle? I can go get it for you," Loomis asked.

I am so fortunate, she thought. These kind, kind men. Looking after me. She teared up. "Oh, both you are so kind to me. Thank you. No, Loomis I am fine. Thank you."

"All right, miss, you go on up to your room and I will bring that broth for you straight away. And rolls, too. With lots of butter." Antonio pressed the up button and the doors opened. Gleason stepped in and the doors shut.

Loomis and Antonio turned. "She's really something, huh?" Loomis asked. "Do you think she has someone?"

Antonio stopped. "Are you out of your mind, Loomis? Someone like her? She's got to have someone. So don't get any ideas." Antonio was still shaking his head as he walked into the kitchen of the small restaurant. Loomis, our local Romeo, ha!

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Bobby showered quickly in the locker-room and dressed in his suit pants and shirt. He wanted to get home. He wanted to be there way before six. She's going to call. He smiled and checked his watch, less than an hour. He headed for his vehicle.

At his place, Bobby set his weapon, shield, money clip, and knife on the dresser top. Gleason's necklace was where she had left it. He hadn't touched it and he ignored it now.

He hung up his suit coat, pants and tie. Bobby stripped and then pulled on a pair of green plaid, light cotton pants and a tee shirt. He tossed his dress shirt, boxers, undershirt and socks onto the chair in the corner. His feet were bare.

Twenty minutes. He walked into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Slim pickens, he thought. Bobby removed a package of pastrami and a jar of green olives. He swiped a beer as well. He sat at the table, eating slices of pastrami from the package and olives from the jar, washing it down with swigs of beer. Man, I'm going to pay for this later, he said to himself.

He checked his watch and folded up the meat in its wrapper, twisted the lid on the olive jar and drained the last of the beer. He stood, turned to the fridge, pulled it open and set the meat and olives inside. He shut the door, rinsed the beer bottle in the sink, and set it in the recycle bin beside the fridge. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and walked back to his bedroom.

Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She's going to call me. She'll call. She will.

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Gleason stepped inside her hotel room, shrugged off her wrap, tossed it onto the bed, put her bag on the desk chair and went into the bathroom. She flushed, then washed her hands and splashed water on her face. She checked the time, forty minutes. She considered changing her clothes. Wait for supper, she said to herself. In that instant, she heard a knock at the door.

She pulled it open and there stood Antonio. The tray he held had several bowls, a basket heaping with bread and rolls, a small bowl full of butter packets. "May I come in?" he asked with a huge smile.

"What have you done?" Gleason said with a smile in her voice. "Oh, Antonio! What is all of this?"

"Well, miss, you said you were hungry. So, I brought you lots of things that will be easy on your stomach. Here are three kinds of soup. Eat one now and put the other two in the mini-fridge for later. You can warm them up in the microwave. I've got two kinds of fruit here, applesauce and mandarin oranges. Here's plenty of bread. Keep the napkin on to keep them fresh. And lots of butter as requested." He stepped back proudly. "Oh, and lots to drink as well." He pulled two bottles of juice from each jacket pocket. One each of four kinds.

She was stunned. "Oh, Antonio, you are so thoughtful. Thank you, love." She stepped to him and surprised him with a peck on the cheek. He instantly went deep red. He shoved his hands into his pocket and looked at the floor. "Oh, oh, miss, oh." His embarrassment was sweet.

"Where's the ticket for me to sign?" Gleason searched the tray and didn't find it.

"Oh, no, it's on the house, miss. My pleasure."

"Absolutely not! Antonio, don't be silly. Give me the ticket."

"No ma'am. The management wants to ensure your safety, health and comfort. It's on the house." Antonio turned and walked to the door. "You eat slowly, but eat it all this evening, hear?" He smiled. "Just leave the try inside when you are done. Housekeeping will get it tomorrow. Have a good night." And he pulled the door shut behind him.

This is unbelievable, she thought. She was starving. Gleason moved her bag from the chair to the floor and sat at the desk and peeked at the three soups. She recovered two of them and picked up the bowl of minestrone. Bobby's favorite, she thought. She drank the broth in small sips. Forget the spoon; she'd use it to eat the good stuff. She wanted the broth right now. Then, she took a roll, ripped it in half and slathered it with butter. Oh, this is so good. She glanced at the clock, thirty minutes.

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"Joe thanks for waiting for me. Hey, I need to switch you tomorrow. Livingston is going to take your truck and I need you to work inside. A container is coming in from the pier and you know how to sort. That new guy, Wayne, has no idea. And Livingston always screws up. So, tomorrow, that ok with you?" Jackson watched the other man. Do it, he said silently, take the switch.

"Yeah, ok, sure, no problem. I'll manage the sort. That it?"

Jackson nodded, "Yeah. Thanks. See you in the morning." Navicky turned and walked away.

Well, that was easy, Jackson thought.

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Gleason finished the minestrone and three rolls. She drank down one bottle of juice and she was full! But it was a good full. There, that's good. Oh, she felt so much better. There's something to this eating thing, she said to herself with a smile.

She organized the rest of the bowls in the mini fridge. It was a tight fit, and the applesauce leaned, but she got it all in there. The three remaining bottles of juice sat neatly in the door rack. Gleason considered having one more roll, but scolded herself and wrapped the bread securely in two cloth napkins. She set the bundle inside the microwave to protect it further from the air.

Ten minutes. She unbuttoned her top and slipped off her shoes. She stripped off her undershirt and unzipped her jeans. She slid them off and folded everything neatly. Gleason removed her light green pajamas from the drawer. She stepped into the bottoms and pulled the top over her head. She retrieved her cell phone from her bag and climbed onto the bed. She sat up with her knees to her chest and pulled her throw around her.

Five minutes.

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Pangborn watched Navicky cross the car park. He had a duffle of some sort. Ha, bet that's for the money. Jesus.

"Sorry it took so long. The boss wanted to talk to me."

"No problem. Ready?"

"Yeah. Where're we going?"

They both got in and slammed the doors. Navicky didn't see Pangborn use the bottom edge of his shirt to open the passenger side door. Pangborn crossed his arms and said, "We have to go to get my car. I'm on Delancy, between Christie and Miller. We can leave your car there and pick it up after. Where are the paintings, Joe? Where'd you put them?"

"Well, nowhere near Delancy, I'll tell you that. Let's save about ninety minutes and go from here to get the art and then I'll take you to your car." Navicky looked straight ahead as he said this.

Fuck! thought Pangborn. He was afraid this would happen. Damn it! Christ, this messes up everything. Well, I need the canvasses and my car. Shit.

"Ok, let's go." Pangborn shoved his hands into his pockets.

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Gleason glanced at the clock again.

Bobby glanced at the clock again.

Gleason picked up the phone from beside her on the bed.

Bobby picked up the phone from the cradle on the bedside table.

She hit speed dial number one.

He stared at it.

She put the phone to her ear.

He stared at it.

She heard it ring.

He heard it ring.

He pushed 'talk.'


	16. Chapter 16

92

Aligned Design

Ch 16

Navicky and Pangborn drove in silence. Each man considered the options open to him. Neither was particularly happy with the way this day was ending.

Navicky ran through how he saw this going down. He'd drive to the storage unit, unlock it, make Pangborn go in first, move the paintings to his car, take Pangborn to his car, and shoot him, take the money, and leave with the paintings. Then . . . call Jenese.

Pangborn ran through how he saw this going down. He'd ride with this idiot to where ever those paintings were. Load them into the car, break this jerk's neck, take Navicky's keys and drive away.

Neither spoke. Each imagined. Both smiled.

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"Bobby?"

"Oh, Honey," he was so relieved to hear her voice. "Thank you for calling me."

"Of course I called you, I said I would." His voice is so soft, she thought. "Bobby . . . I'm sorry this happened."

He sat on the edge of the bed his forehead resting between the thumb and fingers of his right hand, elbows on his knees. What do I say? I don't want to say the wrong thing.

"Bobby, are you ok?" Gleason sat on the bed, knees pulled up, leaning back on a pillow, the green throw around her. Why won't he talk to me?

"I'm, I'm here."

They sat silently for nearly a minute. Then Gleason said, "Bobby, I know you are angry with me. I'm sorry I left the way I did. I had to come to Chicago. I should have told you."

She could hear him exhale. "Why are you in Chicago?"

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Jenese got out of his car, smoked a cigarette and watched Navicky cross the car park to the beat up Honda. He saw the stranger straighten up and walk to the passenger side. The two men spoke briefly and then get into the car. Jenese stubbed out his cigarette and got into his own vehicle. He waited for Navicky to exit the car park and then followed. He tried to keep two vehicles between them.

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Oh, she did not want to tell him why she was in Chicago. Not over the phone. It will be so complicated, she in Chicago, he in New York. "Bobby . . . love, I, I . . . I want to talk about it when I come home. It's complicated, Bobby."

He said nothing and squeezed his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. She heard him sniff. "You're not coming back, are you?"

"Of course I am, sweetheart! Bobby, I'm coming home Friday night. I told you. I am coming home." She was so sorry she'd done this to him.

"Will you stay? Will you stay here, with me? Gleason, I need you." His voice was so soft.

"Bobby. Oh. . ." She was lost for words. Anything she said would be nothing he wanted to hear.

"Ok. I understand." His voice had changed, he sounded flat; he wasn't upset, sad, angry. He felt nothing.

"Oh, Bobby. Please, I'll explain everything Friday night. Please love, we'll talk about all of it when I get home. Ok? Say we'll talk Friday night."

"Whatever you want." He detached. Nothing mattered. Whatever she wants.

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Navicky drove to an industrial area in Brooklyn. Jenese followed. Navicky turned right from Myrtle onto Clinton Avenue and headed for "Big Apple Storage – Take a Bite out of Your Clutter." The facility sat on the left, half way down the second block, just before Flushing Avenue.

Navicky pulled into the blacktopped driveway, stopping in front of the ten foot, barred gate. Chain link fencing crowned with curls of razor wire surrounded the entire property. Two rows of four sheet metal buildings stood parallel to the drive. Each of the eight buildings housed five individual units on each side. Two, twenty-foot tall buildings towered at the far left end, parallel to the shorter buildings. All ten buildings rested on a blacktop field.

"This is it," said Navicky as he put the car in park and got out. Pangborn watched Navicky walk to the gate and pick through the keys on his ring. Navicky opened the lock and swung the gate wide. Pangborn's eyes never left him. Navicky returned to the car and they drove through.

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"Don't, don't be like this . . ." Gleason began to cry. Softly, nearly silently, she cried. She didn't want him to hear her. He did. And it broke his heart.

"Gleason . . . Gleason, honey . . . don't, don't cry. Baby, don't cry. Come on. I'm sorry. Gleason, please." He waited. She cried softly, sadly. After a bit, he heard her crying slow. She hitched a sob. "Honey?"

"Bobby, I miss you. I want to come home. I want us to be together. I miss you so much. I want you to love me. Will you make love to me when I come home? Will you?"

"Oh, god, Gleason, yes. Yes, honey. I want you." Bobby had wanted to make love to Gleason for weeks. But she had been so sick. He, too. He'd recovered and wanted her. But, he had been afraid to hurt her. She was so weak. God how he had wanted her.

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Jenese watched the Honda turn right into a blacktop driveway in front of a storage facility. He drove past and continued down the block. Jenese turned around in an abandoned gas station and slowly headed back up the block.

He pulled to the curb and watched Navicky's car drive through the gate. He noticed the Honda turn left, between the fence and the front of the buildings. Navicky stopped just past the third building and backed into the driveway between the third and fourth buildings

Jenese watched the Honda disappear between the buildings and pulled from the curb. He entered the storage lot through the opened gate and turned right, stopping at the end of the first building. He turned left at fence in front of him and followed it to the rear of the first building. He turned left again, drove between the two rows of buildings, and pulled into the drive between the second and third buildings. He stopped at the second door from the end. He was on the opposite side of the building where Navicky's Honda sat. Jenese could see the exit driveway straight a head of him.

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Each listened to the other breathe. Then, softly, Gleason said, "I thought of you yesterday. I was thinking of our first time. That Saturday night. Oh, Bobby it was so good. Everything you did." An ache started between her legs, a nice ache. "Do you remember?"

Bobby said nothing for half a minute. He had to sit up; he was stiffening. "Oh, yes honey, I remember. It was good. So good."

Gleason slid down on the bed, pulling the pillow under her head, "Will you do everything to me again? Will you make me come? Like you did?" she whispered.

"I'll do anything you want. Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me." His voice was husky.

"Remember how you kissed me? I love the way you kiss me, Bobby."

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Navicky stopped in front of the second door from the end. He put the car in park and popped the boot. Both men sat and stared ahead.

"Ready," asked Navicky. He glanced over at Pangborn and opened his door. Navicky did not notice that Pangborn used the edge of his shirt to open his door. Pangborn stayed on the passenger side of the car as Navicky again fumbled through the keys. He watched the other man open the cheap lock and turn to him.

"Are you going to help me with this, or just watch?"

Pangborn came around the car and stood beside Navicky as he bent and raised the segmented overhead door. It was dark inside the unit.

"You go first," Navicky said to the buyer.

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"I love kissing you. Your lips are so soft. You taste so good. You are sweet. And salty. I like your salty places." He stretched out on the bed. He was nearly erect.

"Your tongue, Bobby, what you do with your tongue. Where you put it." He heard her breathe.

"I want to lick you. I want to drink your juice. You like when I lick you there, don't you? Feel it, put your hand down there. Touch it. Touch that place. Do it, honey. Touch there."

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Jenese removed his Glock .22 from under the seat and took the silencer from the glove box. He checked the ten round magazine and threaded the silencer. Soon, soon, soon, he said to himself.

He opened the car door, stepped out, closed the door, but didn't shut it. He crept to the near corner of the building and then along the end to the next corner. He peeked around. Those two are less than seventy-five feet from me. Shit, I can pop them both from here. This will be a piece of cake!

Navicky motioned for Pangborn to enter and Navicky followed him. Jenese leaned back against the end of the building. He'd wait until the six canvasses were in Navicky's car, then pop! pop! He would back his car up to the Honda, move the paintings from one car to the other and off he'd go. Baltimore, here I come, he thought.

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Oh, god, Gleason thought. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She slid her hand down the front of her pajama bottoms, under her panties. She felt her wetness.

"Oh, Bobby." He heard her suck in air.

"You're wet aren't you? You are wet for me. Move your finger over your nub. It's my tongue. Feel it? That's my tongue, baby. Good?" His voice was so deep, rough.

"Oh, god, Bobby. It's, it's good. You need to feel good, too. Are you hard? You are so long, so thick. Do you want me?"

"Yes." His breath came quickly. "Yes, I'm hard, Gleason. I want to be in you. You are tight, hot. Wet. Uh!"

"My mouth was around you. My tongue, remember? I love sucking you, Bobby. You are so big. So hard. I want you in my wet mouth." Gleason's finger rubbed harder on her clit. She breathed through open lips.

He moved the phone to his right hand and shifted on the bed, sliding his pants to his knees. He pulled himself free, fully erect. He grasped himself and moved his hand up, then down. He moaned aloud.

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"Isn't there a light in here?" Pangborn didn't like being inside, out of the light. It would be just like this chump to take him out. He stepped back outside.

"Ok, ok. Take it easy. Here." Navicky found the string hanging from the ceiling and pulled. "There. Better? Now get in here and help me with these."

The unit was empty save for six wooden crates leaning against the far wall. The crate was about five feet by three feet. They would easily fit into the boot or hatch of a mid-size vehicle.

"Come on, give me a hand. Let's get this done."

Navicky and Pangborn each took a crate and moved it to the boot. Jenese shot a look around the corner. He worried about being seen, he was that close. It was hard to tell how many paintings were in the boot. He stole one more look and saw Navicky reach for the strap on the overhead door. Pangborn stood by, watching. Now, do it now, Jenese shouted to himself. Now!

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"Oh, god, Gleason. God." He was breathing hard. "You are hot inside. And tight." He slid his fist up and down, slowly. "I want to be in you." His thumb rubbed over the tip, smearing the drops of early cum. "Slide your finger inside. Slide in slowly. Like I did." He ran his fingers up and down the ridge on the underside of his velvet length. "Do it, slide in. All the way." His penis was thick, hard, long and dark red. He slid faster and faster. "In and out, slowly, in then out. Oh, unh. Unh!" His eyes were shut tight. He was right there with her. He felt her wetness. He was approaching the edge. Soon. Oh, god.

"Unh, unh, oh, Bobby. I'm going to come. I want to come. Oh, god."

"Yes, come, let me hear you come, honey. Feel it. Go in and out. Fuck yours – . . . oh, unh. Gleason, come. Come. Ungh, ungh! Come, honey. Feel me. In you. Let me hear you come."

Gleason panted, and moaned. She slid in two fingers. She rubbed her clit; she slid in and out. She felt him. She rubbed against her own fingers. "Oh, uh, ungh, god, ungh, ungh, aaaagggghhhh . . ." She came with guttural, feral sounds. Gleason rode against her hand, arching up from the bed.

He heard her come and he exploded. Short, fast streams shot from him and fell onto his shirt; it ran down his fist, through his fingers. His hips jerked up as though fucking her on top of him. His deep growls were short and fast, just like his cum.


	17. Chapter 17

97

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Ch 17

"Do you think Deakins knows about us?" Sledge poured more wine into Eames' glass.

"Does it matter?" Jesus, Sledge is skittish about the damnedest things.

"Yeah, I think it does. What does the Work Environment Manual say about fraternization? Because you and I, sweetheart, are fraternizing."

"Edward, no one knows. Stop worrying." Eames didn't think Bishop would say anything.

"Yeah, well Bishop alluded to knowing something." Edward turned back to flipping through a stack of DVDs. The hand holding her wine glass stopped midway to her lips. Shit!

"She doesn't know anything. She was bluffing. Relax." Eames looked at him over the rim of her glass. They would have to be more discreet. Although, she could not see where they had let anything show.

"What is this?" He turned toward her, holding up a DVD case and smiling. "You actually have 'The First Turn On'? This is a cult classic. Let's watch this."

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The lay together panting, he in New York, she in Chicago. Jesus, that was good, he thought. Oh, God, that was good, she thought.

"Honey, you ok?" Bobby asked panting.

Gleason moaned in a most seductive manner. "Oh, yes. I am very ok, Love."

They listened as their breathing slowed. "Did you come, Bobby? I, I couldn't tell. I was . . . distracted," Gleason said with a smile in her voice and on her lips.

"Yes, yes, sweetheart, I did. All over my shirt, hand . . ." Bobby lifted his upper body and looked at his shirt – yuck. He pulled up his pants with one hand and then wiped it on his thigh.

"Bobby, where did you learn to talk like that? I've never done that before."

He had to smile and then said, "Watching porn." He wondered if she'd get it, if she'd remember.

Oh, she did. "Bobby! You took my line!" They both laughed. Ah, this is so good, this is like it was before, Bobby thought. His heart soared.

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Jenese took aim and pulled off two shots, thip, thip! Pangborn dropped like a bag of shit. Navicky looked dumbly at Pangborn on the ground and then looked up, slowly, right into Jenese's eyes. Before recognition could occur, thip, thip, and Navicky jolted backward onto the ground.

Yes! I am a god! Jenese instinctively looked around, and then dashed back to his car. He was tempted to peel around the corner to the Honda, but he resisted and backed up slowly, carefully, stopping just short of Pangborn's body. He popped the boot and got out.

He kicked Pangborn, dead. Yeah, two slugs to the back of the head will do that to you. He stepped over Pangborn and looked at Navicky; the sap stared straight up to heaven, eyes wide open. The two holes in his forehead didn't bleed a bit. Nice work, if I say so myself.

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Eames snuggled into Sledge's arms as they sat on her couch. She finished her wine and Edward reached for the bottle.

"No, no, I'm done," she told him.

"You sure?" He held up the bottle and tilted it. "There's less than a glassful left. Why don't you finish it?"

"Edward, I have three interviews without Bobby tomorrow. I want to be alert. No. Thank you."

"Ok, suit yourself. Although, you don't need Goren to do those interviews, you know."

She thought about this. Well, I'm sure I can interview just fine. But Bobby, Bobby has a way. . . "I know that. I just, just want to be sharp tomorrow."

Edward nodded and sucked down the last of the wine, straight from the bottle.

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Bobby and Gleason lay silently, listening to each other breathe. Finally, Bobby said softly, "I love you, Gleason."

She heard him and her heart filled. "I know you do, love. I know you do." She wanted to say it, Say it! She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, how she had loved him from the moment she saw him in the conference room eight weeks ago. She wanted to tell him how she loved him more than she had loved anyone. Just tell him, she shouted to herself. Say it!

Bobby listened. He waited. Then, softly, deeply, "Honey . . . do you love me?" She said nothing. "Do you love me, Gleason?"

Her eyes closed. Her face squinted in her pain, her dilemma. "Sweetheart, you know I do. Don't you?"

He heard her and he turned this over in his mind, "Then say it. Say you love me."

Oh, God. Say it, she screamed to herself. She felt sick. She sat up, crossed her legs and put her hand to her head. He's waiting, she told herself. He's waiting for you to say it. Go on, just tell him you love him. You do . . . don't you?

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He wasted no more time and lifted the top crate from the Honda into his heap. He was careful not to touch the edge of Navicky's car. Wish I'd thought to bring gloves, he scolded himself. Thank God, these crates are not too big. They were heavy enough.

Jenese shoved the last crate on top and tried to shut the lid. It wouldn't close. Shit! He shoved further, it still wouldn't close. God damn it! He looked at where the problem was. He moved the jack off to the side. That roll of hose is in the way! Jenese pulled out the top two crates and pushed the other four over to the left. He reached past them and grabbed the tubing. He took it from the boot and dropped it on the blacktop. He restacked the last two crates, shoving as far as they would go. There! The lid slammed shut. He picked up the roll and tossed it on the floor in the back. Jenese jumped into the vehicle, started the engine, headed back around the end of the building, turning right, and then right again. The exit was straight ahead, the gate still open.

Jenese drove slowly through the gate and stopped. He left the car in park and jogged back to the gate. He swung it shut and looked at the lock, cheap thing. He clicked the hasp into the block and returned to his car. He checked left, then right and headed east, toward Baltimore.

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Bobby waited. And waited. Still she said nothing. He waited a full minute. I cannot believe this. It should not be this hard for her to say she loves me. Huh, so, she doesn't love me. Jesus Christ, she does not love me! The heat rose in his head. Goddamn her, all this time. She's been using me. Christ Almighty, I've been a fool.

"Ok, so you don't love me. Then why the fuck did you stick around, huh? So I could take care of you? So I could fuck you when you wanted?"

His voice was getting louder. He was on his feet, left hand chopping, arm flailing. "I wanted to fuck you so many times, but I didn't because YOU WERE SO SICK!"

He was shouting, out of control. "Jesus Christ, Gleason, you used me, didn't you? You don't love me. You never did, you never will. Goddamn. Ha! I can't believe this!" He was panting, pacing in the small space between the bed and the chest, the bed and the dresser.

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Edward and Eames snuggled comfortably on the couch, watching the movie.

"Edward, this is the dumbest movie I have ever seen. This is stupid."

"I know! I can't believe you have this. It is so not your taste." He was enjoying the poor writing, stupid humor, shitty acting, crappy editing – everything that made it so bad that made it so damn good!

"I'm going to bed and read. This is a waste of time." Eames uncurled herself and stood up. "Are you going to finish watching this?"

Sledge looked up at her. "Not if I can get into your pants," he said with a dirty grin and raised eyebrows.

"Enjoy your movie." Eames picked up her book and headed to the bedroom.

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Gleason was in shock. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. This wasn't Bobby. This couldn't be Bobby. She was frightened. What's wrong with him? Her mouth went dry. She gulped for air. Bobby. . .? She flipped shut her phone as if a spider had crawled out of it and dropped it on the bed.

She pulled her throw around her. Her hands flew to her face. She was too stunned to cry. My god, my god. What is wrong with him? She never thought he had that inside of him. I did this to him. I made him like this. Oh dear God, what have I done?

Gleason wanted to call him back, but she was afraid. She was afraid of the man she heard on the phone. He was so angry. He shouted at her, swore at her. Bobby would never do that. Never. What has happened to him?

She had to pee. She needed to wash her hands. She needed to take her heart pill. She couldn't move. She was so tired, all of a sudden, she was so tired.

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Jenese headed east with the setting sun at his back. Traffic was heading west, so he had no delays. He checked his watch. Tillman was probably on a plane. He'd wait for his first stop, two, three hours from now and give Tilley a call. He hoped to God Tillman had checked out that ceramicist.

Jenese thought about how the next few days, maybe weeks, would play out. He'd stash the paintings until he could make some connections to unload them on the underground. Fence them off to a dealer working for private collectors who weren't funny about buying stolen art that had been 'found.'

Tillman had taken out a nice, chunky insurance policy on the six paintings and had already filed the claim. Canvettelli had also taken out a policy, for a lesser amount. However, Jenese had signed for the policy and stood to collect. Canvettelli, the fool, had believed Jenese when he had told the gay boy that he would split with him, because he 'loved' Canvettelli so much. Yeah, right, sure.

His piece –twenty-five grand per painting, _before_ the dead artist increase, plus Tillman's piece –fifty grand per painting, _before_ the dead artist increase stood to make he and Tillman fairly wealthy men. And that's not considering the value of the paintings to selective buyers. Yes, indeedy, they would be rich.


	18. Chapter 18

103

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Ch 18

Bobby found himself standing in the hall outside his bedroom. He was breathing hard. The phone was in his right hand. He looked at it, then put it to his ear. Nothing. Who . . .? Slowly he remembered. Oh. No, no, no, no, no. No, Gleason, no. Honey. Jesus, what did I. . . ? He clicked off, then on and dialed her cell. Please, baby, answer. Please.

Gleason heard the phone from the bathroom. It's him. She looked at herself in the mirror. Answer it, go on. You did this to him. You've pushed him to this point and now you've ladled guilt on top of it. Answer it! He won't be angry now. He'll be repentant. The phone rang four more times, then quit.

I can't even leave her a message. Bobby's pain was physical. No, no, no. He returned to his bed, sat on the edge, dropped the phone on the bed beside him, and tried to remember what had happened. He remembered the sex, he ran his hand down the front of his shirt and felt the cold stickiness; without thinking, he wiped his hand on his thigh. They had talked, and laughed. He remembered that. That was nice. Then . . . what? His hands went to his face, he leaned into them.

Gleason washed her hands and took her heart pill. It was five fifty-eight in Chicago. She was exhausted. She lay down on the bed, pulled her throw over her, tugged the pillow under her head just right, and stared at her phone. She knew there was no message.

Bobby had gotten her this phone when he retuned the special one, the loaner she had had after the police took hers to process the messages from Clive. Jerry, the audio tech at Bobby's work had disabled the message function on her new phone. She remembered Bobby saying how he had to convince Jerry to do it, the tech thought she was nuts to want a phone that did not take messages. She did not want any messages ever again after Clive . . . she put that out of her mind. Bobby had gotten her so many things – a new laptop, a new phone, that necklace. The pain in her chest grew; it wasn't from her heart, it was from far deeper.

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Jenese continued east. He felt terrific. He ran the whole past hour over in his mind. The only thing he would have done differently, he thought, would have been to drag the two bodies into the storage unit. But he couldn't, Navicky had already pulled down the door. Damn, he hadn't checked to see if Navicky had locked it, though. He could have slid it back up, dragged in the bodies, pulled it down, shut the boot. Well, no use crying over spilt milk, eh?

His mind slid to thoughts of Tillman. That man made everything worthwhile. He was good, smart, pretty, lean, and good to lean on – especially from the back. Jenese smiled at that. Tillman had been his lover since the Navy. Don't ask, don't tell – don't worry! He could see them being lovers all the way to the old folks' home.

Oh, there would be diversions along the way, there would always be diversions. Like Canvettelli, prissy whore. And that artist, Peignoir, but he had really been part of the job. Jenese was sure Tillman had his little liaisons as well. Have to take it where you find it, he thought. But they always returned to each other. What Tilley could do with his mouth . . . in so many places . . . Jenese felt himself twitch alive. His hand moved to his joy sick and rubbed through his trousers. Soon!

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Sledge sat watching the movie, and Eames lay on her bed reading. His mind wandered to the woman in the other room. He smiled at the thought of her. He was so happy they were together. God, he loved her. He had loved her ever since he first met her. She was so tiny, one hell of a shot, smart, funny, and she took no shit from him or anyone. She was unbelievable in bed, eager, willing and creative – better than he had ever imagined.

Edward knew Alex had feelings for her partner. He knew she probably always would. He could see it in the way she looked at him. Sledge didn't care, not really. Goren wasn't going to return those feelings. Alex was at the other end of the spectrum from Goren's type. Gleason was exactly what Goren wanted, needed.

Madelyn had been like Gleason – tall, beautiful, slim; maybe not a PhD, but smart enough to know when to shut up. And _easy_! She would spread 'em for anyone. Goren had been clueless for so long! Jesus, everyone had had a turn with Madelyn, and he still kept thinking she was 'the one.' Goren had been way more than pissed when he caught Sledge with Madelyn in Goren's bed. He had never forgiven Sledge, until today at lunch.

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Bobby hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times.

Gleason shut off her phone after his second call and set it on the far night table. She was so tired. She closed her eyes, snuggled as she would against Bobby, and fell asleep.

He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times. He hit redial, listened to her phone ring five times.

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Tall, dry corn stalks rustled on her left as she walked along the weedy road. It seemed as though she had been walking forever, she was so tired. Dead brown leaves skittered beside and between her feet as she trudged up the slight rise in the road. She heard the corn, the leaves and . . . there! Hear it? She stood still and listened on the crest of the road. There, that! Was that . . . was that a child? Laughing?

She looked around. The meadow to her right was empty, overgrown. The rail fence had fallen in two places. There's a stonewall at the bottom of the field, isn't there? The tall weeds and the slope of the road hid the bottom of the field. The laughter came again. Happy, full of life.

She wanted to find that little boy. Boy? How did she know that it was a little boy laughing? She walked on, watching the field to her right. Movement up ahead caught her eye. There! On the stonewall – a little boy! He's running on the wall! She tried to hurry, but couldn't. She needed to go to him.

Who is that? That man? She watched the little boy run toward him. She heard him squeal as the man swooped him up and swung him around. The man collected the boy in his arms and settled him safely against his right shoulder, setting the child on his arm, holding him with his left.

Bobby. That's Bobby. With our son.

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Sledge shut off the movie; Christ, it _is_ stupid. He turned off the lights in the living room and kitchen and walked down the hall to her bedroom. Alex looked up when he opened the door. God, she's adorable.

He crossed to her and took the book from her hands. He leaned down and took her mouth in his. His tongue slowly pushed through her lips and she let him in. Alex returned his kiss. Sledge began unbuttoning her blouse with his right hand. She pulled away and looked up at him. She saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. His eyes were dark, intense. She saw him look into her soul.

He unbuttoned his own shirt, shed it and then undid his buckle. Alex lay there watching him. He was so big, so fit, and so strong. His eyes never left hers. He stepped out of his trousers and boxers. Alex looked at him there, at his place. He was huge.

Sledge sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He pushed her hair away from her face, bent, and kissed her again. He finished unbuttoning her blouse and pulled her upright. She reached up and pulled his face to hers. He pushed her blouse down from her shoulders and tossed it across the bed; he reached behind her and unhooked her bra. In one move, he pulled it free and put his mouth on her left breast, sucking gently.

He felt her respond. Her mouth went to his shoulder and she bit gently and then laid back. He reached for the waist of her pants, unbuttoned, unzipped and she lifted as he tugged. Sledge kissed her taut stomach, licking her navel. His mouth traveled south, licking, nibbling, sucking. Sledge slid her over and climbed between her open legs. She arched and hissed as his mouth met her opening.

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Bobby finally stopped hitting redial. He dropped back on the bed from the edge where he sat. His hands dropped onto his chest. Yuck! He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. He tossed it onto the chair in the corner. Then he stood and pulled off his pants. Onto the pile they went. He set the phone on the bedside table and pulled back the coverlet and sheet.

He looked at the expanse before him. He saw her body where she had lain. He saw her turn to face him, her leg stretching, arm pushing upward. Her smile. Those eyes. Hair like clouds at sunset. He pulled a breath as if it was a solid. Carefully, he got in, staying close to his side. He drew her pillow to him and he held it like he had held her. He breathed in her scent. Eventually, he slept.

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Why doesn't he answer his phone? Canvettelli asked himself aloud. Where is he? He flipped shut the phone and tossed it onto the chaise. Well, if he thinks he can just fuck me and then not answer my call, then screw him! Although that's what I want to do, screw him, he whined. Canvettelli paced.

Jenese had always answers my calls; why not tonight? Canvettelli thought back to this afternoon, in his office. Oh, that damn woman detective! What a pest! What did she want? The name of the broker I bought the paintings from. I don't even know who that is! Jenny set up all of that. I wish he had talked to her. He's so strong, so confident. Where is he? Canvettelli dialed the number again.

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Gleason woke slowly. She had to pee. She lay a moment, trying to catch the tatters of a dream. Parts were from other dreams she had had in the past. Corn stalks, a field and something else, someone else. The fringe of the dream blew away and she swung her legs off the bed. She really had to pee.

Walking back into the room drying her hands, Gleason looked at the time – nine-twenty. Oh, soup! Antonio brought that soup. She set the towel on the top of the fridge, bent and pulled open the door. She removed the chicken noodle soup and the mandarin oranges, setting them on top of the fridge. Gleason checked the label of each bottle of juice in the rack on the door. Cranberry it is.

She stood and opened the microwave. Ooooh, the bread! Trading the bowl for the basket, Gleason shut the door and hit the one-minute button. She poked under the napkins and chose a chunky slice of sourdough bread. She set the basket on the fridge top, opened a butter packet, and spread it thickly. Gleason took a huge bite and the microwave dinged. Mmmmmm . . . good, she thought.

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Jenese heard the phone ring for the third time. Christ! He pulled it from his coat pocket and set it on the seat beside him. He knew who it was. His other phone, his Tilley phone, sat clipped securely to his belt. He grabbed up the pesky phone from the seat and considered calling Canvettelli and telling him what was up. Be rid of that little piece of shit.

Naw, don't do that, he cautioned himself. Pansy-ass might get pissed and go to the police. That detective woman is a bitch with a bone. No, just let Canvettelli figure it out on his own. By the time he does that, Tilley and I will be done in Baltimore and living in South Beach. Walk away from Gay-Boy. Leave 'em wanting more, as they say.


	19. Chapter 19

107

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Ch 19

Eames was at the office early. Despite the active night she'd spent, she was eager to get this day going. The list of questions grew as she thought through each interview. Where's Bobby? I could use his mind on this, she thought.

As if summoned, her partner rounded the corner from the lifts. His head was down and his shoulders were slumped. Oh, boy, thought Eames, here we go.

"Morning," she said as he pulled out his chair and sat. It appeared he was going to ignore her today. Great.

Then, he realized she was there, "Huh? Oh, sorry, yeah, morning." He flipped open his portfolio, rested his head in his right hand and studied intently.

Edward round the corner and she saw him watching her. Slyly he ran his tongue over his lips and winked at her. She lost it, laughed aloud and immediately looked down at the desktop.

"Huh?" Bobby asked, looking up at her. He saw the top of her head and saw her shoulders shaking. "Eames? Are you crying? What did I do? Did I say something to make you cry?"

She looked up at him and her face said it all, "No, no Goren, I'm not crying." Eames tried to get herself together. Slowly she recovered and stole a glance over at Sledge. He was standing with the phone to his ear, looking at her. He caught her glance and did it again.

Eames dissolved. Her hands flew to her face and she chortled behind them. It grew. Every time she tried to stop, another wave crashed over her and she sat bouncing with laughter. She tried to keep it quiet, but then she snorted a huge one and Goren's head shot up. Her snort sent her over the edge and she laughed until tears fell.

"Are, are you laughing at me? Eames? What . . . ?" He looked at Alex as though she was nuts. Deakins walked over to ask about the interviews today and saw Goren looking tired and worried and his partner laughing her head off.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked. Eames laughed on, waving her hand, unable to speak, reaching for a tissue in her second drawer. Goren stared at her, then looked up at his boss.

"And everyone thinks I'm the crazy one?"

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Gleason woke up and dashed to the bathroom. Afterward, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. This is ridiculous, I can no longer eat at night, she said to herself. She walked back to the bed and lay down. She felt queasy and wanted to sleep more, but knew she was awake for the day. I need to get up, she thought; I should get breakfast. The thought of food tossed her stomach and she rolled onto her back. Ugh, no food after six in the evening – ever again, she told herself.

Bobby came to mind. What is wrong with him? He was so angry with me. Bobby's words had hurt. She had no idea he was capable of that kind of fury. She wanted things to be as they were that first weekend.

She recalled their meeting, he was so shy, fumbling, trying to ask her out. She smiled, seeing him again in her mind. That next evening, Thursday night, he was so tall, commanding, so interested in everything she said. Sitting across from him, in the booth at Dickie's, she studied his deep dark eyes, his button nose. His wonderfully curly hair, cut so short – he thought it wouldn't be so curly that way. She smiled, remembering. His lips, how he would purse them when thinking, how he used them when loving her.

Her mind's eye traveled every inch of his body. She saw the way the muscles of his body wrapped his bones and filled his skin, defining his lean, taut, strong shape. She felt his heat, his soft strength. Her body remembered his hands, his fingers, so large, strong. Oh, what he does with his hands. She felt so safe next to him. He enveloped her, body and soul.

Oh, how she missed him. Then call him, she told herself. Tell him what he wants to hear. Say it. You have never said it to anyone, not even as a child. You have saved them your whole life, locked away, those three, precious, magic words. Give them to Bobby. He is the one to hear them. He is the one you love.

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Eames' phone rang three times before she was collected enough to answer it. "Eames," she finally said. "Ok, thanks, bring him up. Uh, take him to interview two. Thanks."

Bobby over at her, "Who's here?"

"The insurance broker, Stanley Mazurowsky."

He went back to what he was doing on his laptop. Eames flipped through papers looking for the list of questions she'd worked on yesterday. Damn! She searched the folders on her desk. Shit! She went slower, examining each sheet and folder again. Fuck! "God damn it," she said.

Bobby looked over again. "What are you looking for?"

"I can't find the list of questions for this interview. It was right here, yesterday."

Bobby stood and reached over his desk to three, clipped together, sheets of paper straddling both desks.

"This it?" He asked holding up the papers.

Eames took the papers from him and slumped with relief. "Thank you! Where were they?"

"Right there," he answered, pointing.

"What would I do without you?" she said with a smile, turning away.

"We'll see, won't we?" he answered softly.

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Gleason must have drifted off because she woke to deep rumbling thunder. The rain slashed against the window. She roused and suddenly had to pee. While in the bathroom, she turned on the shower. She walked back to the large window and pulled back the sheer curtains, looking out at the wet world.

She loved the rain. It cleansed and nourished the earth. The smell of rain made her want for home. Rain smelled differently on the tiny island in the North Sea. There, it had a clean, raw edge to it; unlike she had smelled anywhere else.

She wanted to go back one day. She wanted to take Bobby there. She wanted him to see Edinburgh, Stockport, Cheadle, Luton, Doncaster, and Oxford. He would love Oxford. His brilliant mind would thrive there. What was wrong with him? She turned and went back to the bathroom to shower.

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Eames headed to interview room two. Bobby glanced her way and returned to his laptop. He was searching for types of tubing. It was slow going. Nothing he had found looked anything like what might have made the ligature mark on the artist's neck. He needed to get to some hardware stores and talk to people, look at tubing. Will Deakins let me out? Go ask him, he said to himself. Bobby walked to the boss's office.

Deakins was on the phone and Bobby waited outside the open door. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor.

"Well, let me know one way or another. . . . Ok, sure. Bye." Deakins finished, returned the receiver and said, "Is Eames in interview two?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so," Bobby replied.

"Ok, thanks for getting me. Let's go." Deakins stood and crossed his office. Bobby stood aside, paused, raised his left hand to his chest as if to say something, decided 'what the hell,' and followed the boss.

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Gleason stood, dressed and groomed, looking out the window again. She had wanted to walk around Northwestern's campus today – do what she had wanted to do yesterday. Was it too rainy to walk? Not if she had a raincoat and umbrella, which she did not. Doggone! She looked at the clock, eight twenty-one.

Bobby would be at work, if he went. Call him, she told herself. See if he is ok. Talk with him. Find out what happened. She knew she should. But, honestly, she was afraid to call him. She was afraid of him. Gleason wrapped her arms around herself and felt her eyes fill. She was afraid of what he would say, of what he might do.

She turned and decided to get something to eat. She bent and opened the mini fridge and looked at the last bowl of soup – tomato, her stomach lurched and she gagged. Oh, the smell! God! She shut the fridge door and sat up on the foot of the bed, breathing deeply, trying to keep down whatever remained in her tum. Oh. Oh.

Why was she so queasy this week? She had felt funny the last few weeks at home. She even threw up three mornings last week and two the week before, always after Bobby had left for work. She was certain it was because she had eaten too much too late. Same here, she just could not eat late in the evening. She needed to eat something now then, so there would be no repeat of yesterday.

Gleason opened the microwave and removed the basket of bread and rolls. A nice thick slice of Italian, a sesame seed roll, and a dinner roll sat in the bottom. Looking away, she opened the fridge, removed a bottle of juice without looking at the label, and grabbed the bowl of butter packets. She slammed shut the door and sat back on the bed. Her breakfast was ready.

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Deakins and Bobby stood in the dark watching Eames interview the insurance broker. Bobby stood with his right hand tucked under his left arm, left hand to his lips. They listened as she talked with the insurance man. Mazurowsky was willing and well prepared. He brought the original insurance papers and copies of everything for her.

"Who bought policies on these six pieces?" Eames asked.

"Three individuals purchased policies, actually; two within the same week. The artist, Meraux Peignoir, purchased the first one. Well, he had an initial policy he had purchased with the first painting in 1991. He added each piece to the policy as it was finished. He insured them with the normal codicil regarding current market value.

"In other words, the replacement value of each piece would be determined by its value at the point in time when the claim would be made. So, the value of the policy would increase and decrease according to the market value.

"Here's a copy of the policy purchased by Mr. Peignoir. You'll find all of that information on the green tabbed pages with the particulars highlighted in yellow. The signature pages have purple tabs." Mazurowsky slid a clipped packet across the table to Eames. "Oh, I brought a folder for you. There are quite a few things here." Mazurowsky smiled wanly.

"Thank you, Mr. Mazurowsky." Eames accepted the folder, laid it open, and set the packet on the right hand side.

Bobby cleared his throat, the fingers of his left hand at a right angle to his palm, still at his lips. "She should put that packet face down on the left hand side of the folder. That way, the information will be in chronological order of receipt."

Deakins slowly turned his head and looked at the tall genius beside him. Jesus, he thought to himself.


	20. Chapter 20

113

Aligned Design

Ch 20

"Who else bought policies?" Eames asked, sliding the folder to the right a bit.

Mazurowsky answered with a nod, "Well, the gallery owner, a . . . Dominic Jenese. It's the standard policy insuring the paintings for market value against theft, damage or loss. Again, the market value may vary."

Eames was surprised, "You say this Dominic Jenese is the gallery owner?"

"Yes."

Eames wished she had a photo of Canvettelli. "Can you describe him?"

Mazurowsky blinked twice and said, "Well, sure. He's a short, thin white guy, really pale, about thirty or so. He was dressed really well." He watched the detective process this.

Sounded like the man Bill Jackson described at the shipping lot, the guy asking about Navicky, thought Eames. Why is he listed as the gallery owner and not Canvettelli?

The insurance broker continued, "This is a copy of the policy he purchased. Again, everything is tabbed in purple and green with yellow highlighting the particulars."

Eames smiled as she took the second thick packet and set it on top of the first one. "What about the third policy? Who purchased that?"

"That was purchased by the art broker in St. Louis, Mr. Palmer Tillman. His policy was the same as the gallery owner's, covering damage, loss or theft."

"Ok, Mr. Mazurowsky. If you'll excuse me a moment. I'll be right back. Can I get you anything while I'm gone? Soda, coffee, water?"

"No thank you, I'm fine," he smiled. Eames stood and walked next door to the watch room.

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"Well?" She said to her boss and partner.

"When are you going to ask him the rest of the questions?" Bobby asked.

She looked from Bobby to Deakins and back again.

"Eames, the rest of the questions. . . I gave you some ideas yesterday. You wrote them down."

"I, uh. Remind me what they were."

"You need to ask him what kind of identification, proof of ownership needs to be provided when purchasing a policy under the auspices of ownership. I thought Canvettelli owned the gallery. Find out how the value is determined when the artist dies; what's the formula? Find out how the fair market value is determined; what source data are used? What is the procedure for establishing standards of appraisal? Is there a minimum payout amount on these policies? Does the value differ for each painting? Ask about any riders attached to the policies. What other artists do they insure? Have they –?"

"All right! All right!" Deakins said, hands going up in a Bobby-like way. "Enough, Goren. Eames, I'm sending him in with you. This is his thing – interviewing. Bobby, are you ok with this?" He looked hard at the detective before him.

"Yeah, I'm ok."

Deakins sighed, hesitated and then said, "Bobby, if you feel yourself getting frustrated or angry, I want you to leave, hear me? You walk right out of there. Ok?"

"Ok," Bobby said sadly, softly.

"Eames, you keep an eye on him."

"Bobby, this is a good guy, go easy."

He looked at his boss and followed Eames out the door.

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"I'm telling you, he never clocked in this morning. He should have been here at six to open that container from the pier. It's not like him to not show up." Jackson spoke to the two officers asking for Joe Navicky.

"Did you try his home?" asked one.

"Yeah, I called his house and his cell. No answer either place," Jackson replied.

"We're gonna need his home address and other information."

"Sure, sure. Sarah, get these officers what they need."

Sarah had that 'deer-in-the-headlight' look ever since the two uniformed officers entered the office. She had never been this close to a police officer before. They were so big! The office seemed to shrink when they entered. She wrote Navicky's address and phone on a sticky and handed it to the black officer. He took it with, "Thanks."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" he asked her.

"No, I have no idea why he didn't come in. He usually calls if he's going to call off or even if he's going to be late." She kept glancing up at the cop, but couldn't look him in the eye.

The officer turned back to Jackson, "Did he know he was going to be picked up this morning?"

"No, the detective said to not tell him. Just change his schedule so he would be here and not on a route."

"Ok, thanks. Give us a call if he shows. Thanks."

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"Sir, you have to come with us," the shorter officer tried to reason with Canvettelli.

"I do not have to do any such thing! I know my rights. Don't you try to bully me. I'm not going anywhere with you." Canvettelli stood, arms crossed behind the small table in his tiny office. The space was actually too small for both officers to remain inside. The taller, broader cop stood outside the office door, peering in.

"What am I being arrested for? Tell me that, will you? What have I done that warrants this kind of treatment?"

The shorter cop exhaled in frustration and said, "Look, I've explained this to you twice already. You have done nothing wrong. You are not being arrested. You are being driven to One Police Plaza to answer questions regarding the six missing paintings you reported. This is a courtesy. The Mayor, the Police Commissioner, the precinct Captain, the officers and your fellow citizens of New York will greatly appreciate your cooperation. Now, sir, will you come with us?"

"The Mayor and Commissioner, huh? They'll know about this, me helping solve this?"

The officer nodded, wordlessly.

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint the city's royalty, now would I? All right, I'll go."

"Thank you sir. This way," the cop turned and the two officers passed a look that spoke volumes.

Canvettelli sashayed to the front of his gallery, turning at the door to say, "Pat, I have to help the police for a while. Please look after things for me, will you, dear?" The clerk of uncertain orientation nodded and waved an air kiss to the owner.

The police officer opened the gallery door and Canvettelli swept through.

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Gleason stopped at the desk in the lobby. "Excuse me, Paul, can you tell me if you have an umbrella I might borrow for the day?"

The desk clerk turned around and said with a smile, "Are you going out in this? Oh, Dr. Dear, are you sure?"

Gleason had become fast friends with everyone in front staff. "Yes, I want to go walk around the campus for a bit. I tried to do that yesterday and it didn't work out like I had hoped."

"So I heard. Did you get some breakfast today?"

"Yes, yes, I had wonderful breads left over from last night's feast and a bottle of juice. I am well suited until lunch. Do you have an extra umbrella?"

"I think we can do better than that, let me check something." Paul ducked back through the office door. Gleason watched the rain bounce on the pewter colored sidewalk. Her mind wandered to Bobby. She wanted to talk with him. She knew she wouldn't.

"Here, how is this?"

Gleason turned back to Paul and laughed, "Oh, goodness! Paul!"

He came around the desk holding a raincoat of enormous proportions. "This may be too big. Let's try it."

Gleason set her bag on the black marble ledge of the registration desk and slipped into the raincoat as Paul held it up. It was heavy, but it covered her head to toes. Paul flipped up the basket-size hood and stepped around her.

"You look like a Trappist Monk," he said smiling. "How is it?"

Gleason held out her arms and did not see her hands; she said, with a huge smile, "I think this works, don't you? I certainly won't need an umbrella with this. Thank you, Paul. I shall return it at the end of the day. Alright?"

"Sure thing, doc. Can I get you that cab now?"

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Eames returned to interview two with Bobby in tow. He'd run back to his desk to retrieve his portfolio. She introduced the two and explained that Bobby would be joining them.

"Good to meet you," the insurance broker said, shaking Bobby's hand.

Bobby nodded and sat next to Eames, across the table from Mazurowsky.

"Did each of the paintings have a minimum payout?" he asked, flipping open his portfolio.

"Yes, actually, let me see here . . . yes, Mr. Jenese stood to received a minimum twenty-five thousand dollars per painting and Mr. Tillman would receive a minimum of forty thousand per painting. That is the price before the adjustment due to the painter's death."

"You said a Mr. Dominic Jenese is the owner of the gallery?"

Mazurowsky nodded.

"What kind of proof of ownership does one need to show in order to purchase insurance as the owner?" Bobby asked.

"Well, actually, none. He purchased a standard policy. He mentioned that he owned the gallery. I guess I remembered. It's not noted anywhere."

"You said Palmer Tillman brokered the sale to the gallery. What can you tell us about him?"

"Well, what do you want to know?" asked the Mazurowsky.

Bobby continued to interview the insurance broker without incident. Eames and he slipped back into their rhythm of questioning.

Deakins stood and watched from behind the glass. This is the man I want back, he thought.


	21. Chapter 21

118

Aligned Design

Ch 21

The car turned left onto Clinton from Flushing. It slowed and the right turn blinker came on. It made a wide right turn into the driveway of Big Apple Storage and stopped at the gate.

The woman got out, unlocked the gate, swung it open wide, returned to her car and drove through. She turned right and drove to the end, turned left and stopped at the third door of the first building. She unlocked her unit, raised the door, stepped inside and began shifting boxes.

Three buildings away lay two bodies. Rigor had come and gone and the flies arrived.

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"Thank you Mr. Mazurowsky. You have been very helpful," Eames said as the three of them stood.

"Yes, thanks for all the copies, too. That was very considerate of you," Bobby added sticking out his hand.

"Glad to be of service," Mazurowsky said, shaking Bobby's hand and nodding to Eames. "You have my card if you have other questions."

"This officer will show you out," Eames said.

The insurance broker left and Bobby said to Eames, "You need to restack that folder, Eames."

She looked at him, "What?"

Bobby stopped at the door and turned back. "The folder, you need to restack everything face down on the left. That way it all will be in chronological order of receipt."

Eames looked at him as if he was nuts.

"What?" Bobby looked back at her and then looked at the floor.

"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head. Was he always this odd?

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"Did I do ok?" Bobby asked, entering the watch room.

Deakins looked at the tall detective sheepishly. "You did fine, Goren."

"So, am I off house arrest?"

Deakins looked at Bobby questioningly.

"I want to get to some hardware stores. I want to find the type of hose used to strangle the artist. I haven't been able to find anything matching the ligature marks on-line. Can I go to some hardware stores?" Bobby looked at Deakins like he was twelve and asking his dad if he could go to the movies.

Deakins recognized the plaintive look, he'd seen it in his youngest daughter, so many times. To be honest, he was afraid to let his best detective out by himself. Bobby is unstable. Anything could set him off. He took a deep breath, prepared to respond to Bobby, when . . .

"Excuse me, captain, detective, the gallery owner is here for his interview. Is there anyway you can expedite this?" the officer interrupted at the door.

The three turned and looked at the uniformed leaning into the watch room.

"Really, this guy is having a hissy. He wants to speak to the Commissioner," the cop said with raised eyebrows. He looked like he was ready for a drink.

Deakins spoke first, "Who wants to speak to the Commissioner?"

Eames spoke to the officer, "Thanks. We'll be right there. Offer him something to drink. Make him comfortable." She turned to Deakins. "This is Canvettelli, the gallery owner. He's a little . . . excitable. We should go."

As if on cue, Deakins and Eames looked at Bobby and the boss said, "How about this one? You want to be in on the interview?"

Bobby really wanted to get out. He wanted to go to hardware stores. He wanted to get out and try to call Gleason again. This gallery owner had gotten under his skin so quickly yesterday. He wasn't sure.

"Uh, um, this, this is the guy I had the run in with. Are you sure you want me to be in there with him again?"

Deakins rubbed his face with his right hand. Jesus, what do I do? "Eames, you start. Bobby and I will watch. Just like with the insurance broker." He looked at Bobby, "Are you ok with that?"

Bobby shrugged and then nodded reluctantly. He wanted to get these interviews done so he could get outside.

"Ok, Eames. Are you ready for this guy?"

"Yeah, I'm ready."

She left the other two in the dark of the watch room and turned right to interview one.

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The cab dropped Gleason on Clark Street at the Sculpture Garden.

"Thank you," she gave the cabbie a smile with the fare and a tip.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and pulled up the raincoat's hood. She adjusted herself so that her leather bag hung on her shoulder inside the coat. She was completely covered save for her shoes. She shoved her hands into the bag-like pockets and began to walk among the pieces of art.

The rain tapped on the hood; it splikked on her shoulders. Drops drew straight silver lines in front of her face. Her feet splished quietly in the shallow puddles. The smell of the saturated soil filled her nose. No one else was about. From sculpture to sculpture, she moved through the steady rain. Stopping at each piece, Gleason studied it, read the placard, walked around the sculpture, stepped back and then walked on. She was so happy.

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Eames entered the interview room and faced a nearly hysterical Canvettelli.

"Thank God! I have been waiting forever! Can we get this over with, detective? I have a thriving business to attend to." Then quietly, conspiratorially, he asked, "Will the Police Commissioner be joining us?" Canvettelli looked past her to the closed door.

"Uh, no, not that I'm aware of," Eames replied with hesitation. She couldn't resist turning to the mirrored glass and raising her eyebrows to the two men on the other side.

"Commissioner?" asked Deakins. "Do you know anything about that?" he said to Bobby.

Goren shook his head and mumbled, "Huh uh." He stood beside the captain with his arms crossed, hugging his portfolio to his chest.

Canvettelli, whispered with a knowing nod to the mirror, "He's behind the glass, isn't he?" Then aloud, "Well, let me help you solve this terrible crime. What can I tell you?"

Eames indicated that he sit and she took the seat across from him.

"Ok. You are the owner of the gallery, correct?"

"Yes, I am." Canvettelli shook his head in the same way girls with long hair shake it out of their faces. He stretched out his pencil-like arms on the tabletop and laced his manicured fingers.

"Do you have proof of ownership?"

"What? Why would you ask about proof of ownership? I own the gallery, every brick, strip of mortar, tile on the floor, and pipe and wire in the walls. Why are you asking me if I own it? Of course I do! Why are you asking me this?" He was building a head of steam looking at a full-blown hissy.

"Mr. Canvettelli, please. Calm down. That is a preliminary question. I meant no offence. Let's move on. All right?" Eames was so glad Bobby wasn't in here with her. He'd have snapped this guy's neck like a matchstick. Canvettelli took a deep breath, shook his head and straightened his shoulders.

Eames looked at her notes. "Who is the broker you purchased the paintings from?"

Canvettelli, shifted in his seat. Shit! This is what she's been wanting to know. "Well, detective, I don't know that I'm in a position to reveal that information."

"Oh, yes you are. Who did you purchase the paintings from?"

"I, uh, well, see . . . I, really. . ."

"You don't know, do you, Mr. Canvettelli?" Eames leaned across the table at the slight figure across from her. "You don't know because you didn't purchase the paintings. Someone else did all the organizing – your silent partner. Tell me who you are working with."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Yes you do. Who is behind this heist? Who set up this whole scam?"

"Are you accusing me of a crime, detective?"

"Should I be?"

"Well, no, of course not! I mean, I don't know anything. I just bought the six paintings because Meraux Peignoir is – was – a wonderful, young, contemporary French impressionist. My gallery specializes in such up and comers. I did nothing wrong."

"You still haven't answered my question. Who is the broker?"

Eames was having a good time riding this idiot. She knew from the insurance man that the broker was Palmer Tillman. She wanted to get the St. Louis police to pick him up for questioning. She planned to call right after she finished with this guy and then Navicky.

Deakins leaned slightly to Goren and asked, "What does this guy know that we need to know?"

"I'm not sure any information he has matters anymore. In light of all the information the insurance broker provided."

"Should we let this one go?"

At that moment, they heard a knock at the door and it opened. "Sorry to interrupt. This message just came in for Detective Eames from the eight-eight. They said it was important."

Bobby took it, read it and then told Deakins, "Well, Navicky – the driver of the truck that carried the paintings – never showed up at his place of work this morning. They checked his home and his car is gone."

"Great. Ok, let's spring this guy, he doesn't know anything," said Deakins.

Deakins knocked on the glass and Eames wrapped it up.

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Gleason spent more than an hour walking through the Sculpture Garden. She felt wonderful. The rain, how she loved the rain! She found a bench and sat. Her thoughts slipped back to her early childhood on the island, living in the commune. She remembered a time, she must have been three or four years old, running naked in the rain. It was summer, the ground had gone soft and muddy in front of the bungalow. She had been dancing in the rain and slipped and fell in the mud. It was glorious. Christian MacNaughton stood in the cabin doorway, watching her. She saw his head tilt back and laugh. She'd never felt so happy and safe as she did that day.

To her surprise, she felt her eyes fill. This was the second or third time in two months that she'd thought of Christian. She was certain he was her father. She'd always thought so. However, she'd never allowed herself to admit it. How strange.

A student, taking a short cut across the Sculpture Garden caught sight of the figure in the raincoat, hood up, sitting on the bench, the rain pouring down. He stopped and took in the sight. He reached for his backpack, removed his camera and positioned himself. He clicked off nearly a dozen shots at various speeds and exposures. _That_ is a good composition, he said to himself. _That_ is a winner!

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"Let him go. He's got nothing we need," Deakins told Eames. His phone rang and he said to Bobby, "Tell her the rest. Deakins . . ."

"Tell me what?"

"This message came for you," Bobby handed her the pink message slip. "Navicky never showed up at work. The officers checked his home and there's no sign of him."

"Well that's just wonderful! He ran. Shit!"

"Want me to go spring him?" Bobby asked, nodding to the glass.

"No, I'll do it. Crap!"

I'm never going to get out of here today, Bobby thought. Maybe we can go check out Navicky's residence. That would be good. Maybe we could stop at a hardware store on the way or on the way back. He turned and headed to his desk.


	22. Chapter 22

123

Aligned Design

Ch 22

From the Sculpture Garden, Gleason walked to the Shakespeare Garden. She spent another hour enjoying the plants, flowers, gardens, all of it. She had the whole place to herself. She passed no one. Who else would traipse around in this rain? The flowers were at their best in the rain.

Water is life; Gleason knew this from her childhood on the island. Water surrounded her life growing up. It rained often in the North Sea. It was cold that far north. Warm days were precious. She thrived in the cold and wet. It brought the roses to her cheeks and the curl to her hair, Christian used to say. There he was again! Why am I thinking of him so much, she wondered.

She could see him so clearly in her mind's eye: big, strong, red hair, red beard, eyes the color of far north ice – a clear, clear blue. She had his height, his hair and a darker, deeper, bluer version of his eyes. He was her father. Nora was her mother, she supposed. Christian and Nora were dedicated. They were true to each other, sleeping with none other in the commune. Whilst all cared for all of the children, Christian seemed to look after Gleason especially. He always knew where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. He was always there, nearby. She hadn't seen him since she was seven. Now, he was here, in her mind, all the time. I wonder where he is. How he is.

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A second vehicle, a pick up truck, drove up Clinton and turned left into the driveway at the Big Apple Storage facility. The driver got out, unlocked the gate, pushed it open, and drove through. The truck turned left and headed for the tall buildings on the far end.

The driver and his buddy were discussing the woman the buddy had had dinner with the night before.

"So, was she worth the price of dinner? Dinner on a Wednesday, no less?" asked the driver.

"Let me say this," the other guy replied, "I was dinner and she was dessert."

They both laughed.

Neither noticed the Honda parked on their right between the third and fourth buildings. Neither saw the two bodies on the ground.

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"Do you want to go check out his place?" Bobby asked Eames, his hands and fingers indicating the way toward the lifts. He was hoping she would want to go look at Navicky's place so they could maybe stop at a hardware store.

"Did you run him in the system?" she replied.

"No, I didn't. I guess you want me to, huh?" Bobby knew his chance to get out was slipping. He dropped into his chair and began to type. He watched the search bar fly.

"Well?"

"Ha! Look at this." Eames came around to his side of the desks. Bobby pointed to the screen. "I'm going to print this, but look." Bobby pointed to the list of priors Joseph F. Navicky had: grand theft, home invasion, larceny – a litany of non-violent crimes dating back thirty years. He'd not spent much time inside for all his hard work.

"Well, he's been a lucky bad boy," Eames said. "Maybe we should go check out his place."

"Yes! Yes, let's go see what we find there." Yes, he thought. We can check out his place, and then head to a hardware store. Bobby grabbed his coat, shrugged it on, picked up his portfolio and waited for Eames to return from the printer.

She saw him standing there, looking eager. "Uh, Bobby, shouldn't we ask Deakins about you leaving?" Eames watched him carefully. She sensed this was something that would send him into a rage.

Bobby stood still. She saw his lips purse. His eyes closed, head tilted left. His shoulders fell. Eames saw him take two deep breaths. He did not explode. He carefully tossed his portfolio onto his desk. Slowly, he removed his coat and hung it up. He pulled out his chair and sat.

Eames didn't know what to do, what to say. So she did and said nothing.

"You go. Go on. I'll work here."

"Bobby. . ."

"It's ok. Hey, on your way back, can you get me a sandwich or something?" He glanced up at her with a wan smile.

"Yeah, sure," Eames felt terrible. She called the eight-eight for a pair of uniforms to meet her at Navicky's place.

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"Are you sure he's going to need that much?" Deakins said rubbing his forehead with his left hand.

"Captain, we want to get him well as soon as possible. We need to be aggressive in the beginning and then we can reduce the length and frequency of his sessions. It's easier to start high and go low rather than the reverse," Dr. Alice Stephens had called to notify Deakins of the plans for Goren's treatment. She wanted to speak with the captain to ensure he was all right with the proposed routine, as it would cut into Goren's availability to work.

"So, tell me again the times," Deakins pulled over a tablet and prepared to take notes.

"I'd like to see him three times a week for ninety-minute sessions. Are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays doable?"

"Sure, sure, it makes sense to spread it out over the week. What times?"

"You tell me. Is early or later better?" Stephens wanted to make this as easy as possible.

"Gee, I guess early, get it done and have the rest of the day to work." He thought a moment then asked, "You haven't talked with Goren yet, about all of this?"

Stephens replied, "No, I wanted to make sure it was all right with you. I'm calling him next. This is a silly insurance question -- but will the department grant him the time to stop here first? The clerk asked me to ask."

"Yes, he'll use undocumented sick time. When do you plan his first session?"

"I'd love to start tomorrow morning if he's willing. If not, then this coming Monday morning."

"I, uh, will I be kept informed? I know the confidentiality and all."

"If something comes up or happens that directly relates to or may impact his capacity to perform his duties as a law enforcement officer, then certainly. Otherwise, it's all doctor-patient privilege."

"That's fine, that's all I would want to know anyway. Dr. Stephens, thank you for working to get him well. He's the best detective I've got. And . . . he's a good man."

"I'm delighted to be working with both of you. We'll work hard."

They both hung up and Deakins watched as Bobby slipped off his coat and hung it up.

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The rain slowed and finally stopped. Gleason had been walking for nearly three hours and she wanted to get some lunch. No more eating late and getting sick in the morning she told herself. She headed for the Norris Student Center.

Students began to mill around in the after rain. This is a beautiful campus, she thought. It felt right, being here. Again, her mind slid back to Bobby. He will be so angry. What will he say? Oh, god, what will he do? I have to take this job. I have to. He won't leave New York. He can't leave. But I can. I can live here.

Gleason's interview was tomorrow morning at nine at the Anthropology Department. She would take a cab to the Old Vic House on Hinman. Gleason was looking forward to her interview. She was well prepared; she knew what she could offer. She also knew the university wanted her. Dr. Milton Manlowe had been very excited when she'd called on Monday. She liked Chicago. She wanted to live here. She wanted to live here with Bobby. He will never come here. She knew that.

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"Goren," Bobby said into the phone. "Oh, Dr. Stephens, hello."

"Detective, how are you doing?"

"I'm ok, I guess. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to begin seeing you again. You knew that was imminent, didn't you?"

Bobby rested his head in his left hand, thumb against his temple, fingers shielding his eyes. "Yes, I know it isn't over," he said softly.

"I'd like to meet with you tomorrow morning at eight. Can you meet me here at that time? We'll meet for ninety minutes." Dr. Stephens listened carefully to his reply.

Bobby hesitated, tomorrow, Friday, Gleason's coming home tomorrow. Tomorrow night. She'll be home. "Yes, I'll, I'll be there. I need to talk with Deakins about being late, but I'm sure he'll be ok with it."

"Thank you, detective. I look forward to talking with you again."

"Yeah, me too." Bobby hung up and wiped his hands over his face. Jesus.

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Gleason entered Norris Student Center and removed the gargantuan raincoat. She folded it as best she could and laid it over her left arm. She took in the options at Willie's Food Court. Just about anything anyone could want was obtainable – typical fast food, Chinese, salads, sandwiches – anything. She walked around the perimeter, eyeing it all.

Students filled the area, carrying trays, bags, enormous cups of drink. Gleason felt a thrill. She would be a part of all of this. She belonged here. Her classes would be larger, not a bad thing – even though her small class sizes at Brookbine had allowed for an intimacy that would be the envy of other professors. Still, larger classes meant more minds and more minds meant more diverse thinking, which meant better conversations. Gleason was starved for conversation. She and Bobby had had wonderful conversations that first weekend. But they had grown quiet, distant during their recoveries.

Enough of that thinking, she told herself. Eat something. She decided to get a huge salad from Windy City Salads.

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"Come in," Deakins said without looking up.

Bobby entered the boss's office and shut the door. He sat.

"What's up?" Deakins asked, already knowing the answer.

"Uh, Dr. Stephens just called. She, uh, she wants me to begin sessions again tomorrow morning. At eight, at her office. I said ok. That means I'm going to be late. Is that ok?" Bobby said this all without making eye contact. His hands illustrated the ideas as they usually did, but they seemed sluggish, not crisp as they usually were.

Bobby knew the importance of therapy. He knew what it had done for his mum. And for him. He had had a few sessions with her psychiatrists upon her admission to Carmel Ridge. The sessions helped him understand exactly what was happening inside her brain. He'd read everything he could get his hands on concerning schizophrenia. He learned about the chemical and electrical differences in the schizophrenic brain. He knew about the impact of chemistry upon the electrical systems and the resulting sensory affects from the chemical and electrical imbalances.

Just talking with someone about it, being able to ask questions and getting answers, had put his mind at ease. He was able to get on with his life, knowing his mum was cared for, that knowledgeable people were putting her mind at ease with medication and talk. Bobby had tried to talk with his father and brother about what he had learned. Neither had cared. Ritchie was selfish and ignorant. Their father was overwhelmed and frightened. Ritchie had disappeared and their father had died.

"Of course, Bobby. We'll use undocumented sick time. I'll know where you are and what you're doing, but it won't count against your sick days." Deakins looked at his detective. He felt for the man. "Bobby, this is a good thing. I want you to tell Dr. Stephens everything. Don't hold back. Take advantage of the chance to get well. I need you back one hundred percent. Understand?"

Finally, Bobby looked up. He saw the genuine concern in Deakins eyes. He saw more than just a boss wanting a healthy drone. He saw friendship. He looked back down and said, "I understand. I need to get well. I hate my life right now." Then he looked up and said, "Thanks." He put both hands on the arms of the chair and rose. He turned and walked back to his desk.


	23. Chapter 23

129

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Ch 23

"I don't see anything that indicates that this man ran off." Eames had looked through Joe Navicky's small flat. Nothing seemed out of place – this is the home of a man who lives alone, she thought. Clothes remained in the closet and in drawers, on the floor and on some furniture. Unpaid bills sat on the table with dirty dishes.

Eames wished Bobby were here. He would see things. Where does he look? she asked herself. She checked the area by the phone – no scraps of paper with mysterious phone numbers. She hit star sixty-nine and got a pizza place. Navicky had no answering machine, address book, nothing with any names, addresses or phone numbers.

The calendar still showed last month, every date block was empty. The front of his fridge was bare. She found no photos, no correspondence. He didn't even have a stash of dirty magazines, no porn of any kind. She looked in the medicine chest. Navicky's blood pressure medication remained on the shelf. His toothbrush looked like he'd been using it since 1968.

"Check his mail box, see if he picked up yesterday's mail," Eames said to one of the uniforms. It didn't appear Navicky had a paper delivered. "This guy did not just take off. He is, or was, planning on coming back here," she said aloud to no one in particular.

"So where is he?" asked one of the officers who had gone to pick up Navicky at the shipping lot.

"Good question," Eames answered. "Let's put an unmarked outside and see if he comes back later – he may be just staying away." Eames was being thorough; she knew he wouldn't show.

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Bobby ran a search on Dominic Jenese. Another busy bad boy, he said to himself. Jenese had served time for insurance fraud, twice. Don't these insurance companies check out their policy holders, he wondered.

Then Bobby ran a search on just 'Canvettelli' as he didn't know the gallery owner's given name. Up popped seventeen reports – one hundred-seventeen separate individuals with that surname had passed through the criminal justice system. He was perusing each report, looking for a familiar mug when Eames returned.

"Here, I brought you pastrami on rye with lots of yellow mustard and two bags of salt and vinegar chips. Hope this is ok," she said, setting the bag on his desk.

"Thanks," he replied. "What did you find at Navicky's place?"

"Nothing. If he ran, he took nothing with him. His pills are still in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing has been touched. It looks like he hasn't been home since leaving for work. I don't get it. He had no reason to suspect anything."

"Did you check the phone?"

"Yes, and I star-sixty-nined it. The last call was to a pizza joint. And, no, there were no written-on tablets or notebooks. I even bagged the wastebaskets. Not much there, either."

"You're sure Jackson didn't tip off Navicky? How about the office clerk? What about her?"

"Bobby, I'm telling you. Neither one gave us up. However, yesterday's mail was still in his box. I have bad feeling about this."

"Well, here's what I've got."

Bobby proceeded to bring Eames up to date on his findings.

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Gleason ate her salad with gusto. She was surprisingly hungry. She had finished the roll and was thinking of another when her cell phone rang. Her first thought was Bobby. She pulled the cell from her bag, checked the number and didn't recognize it. The area code was certainly none of the New York numbers.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Wintermantle? This is Milton Manlowe."

"Dr. Manlowe. It's good to hear from you."

"I'm happy to reach you. I would like to talk with you about the interview tomorrow. . . Is this a good time to speak with you?"

"Aye, this is a good time, indeed."

"Good, my dear. I just wanted to make sure we were all set for tomorrow morning."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Gleason learned that the interview would include representatives from various departments, each eager to have her expertise. She would be meeting with heads and chairs of the linguistics, history, classics and anthropology departments. This is a very big deal, she realized. Her excitement grew.

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Jenese drove through the night with only one stop for coffee and a fill up – in more ways than one. He found himself making eyes with a guy at the counter, across from the booth where Jenese sat. The guy was young, really young. He looked tasty. And sweet. He and the kid made eye contact more than several times. Jenese waited to see what the kid wanted – to give or to get. He was hoping the kid wanted to give. God, that would feel good right now.

Ah, there it was, just what he was hoping for, a lick of the lips and eyes sliding to the men's room. Jenese lowered his head and raised it so subtly, that only one expecting a 'yes' would have seen it. The kid set bills on the counter and headed for the restroom. Two minutes later, Jenese did the same.

Jenese reached Tillman at a cheap hotel in southwest Baltimore at six-thirty Thursday morning. He followed Tillman's directions and arrived at the hotel tired, hungry and horny as hell. The kid at the truck stop had no clue what he was doing. Damn good thing the chump wasn't looking to get paid. Jenese had to talk him through it practically.

"First things first," he said to Tilley. "Come here and fuck me."

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Flies entered every orifice. A fat, blue one strutted up Navicky's right nostril and began to drink the drying mucus. A second entered right behind the first. Another fly, more green than blue, fought its way under, got in, and then wiggled beneath the lens of his right eye, lifting it from the orb, sucking up the optic fluid. Two flies fought their way into the same hole in his forehead. The bigger one, a magical turquoise color, wallowed in the pooled blood just inside the dermis. The other took refuge in the other hole.

A small black cloud pulsed in and out of Navicky's mouth. Some burrowed into the tongue. A few wallowed in the wetness under his tongue, making it jerk ever so slightly. Other, braver, stronger ones, ventured past the tongue, down the esophagus. What finds waited! Some flew, others trooped, into the lungs where they feasted on the tar-covered lining. Six beautiful flies found the small malignancy tucked far in the corner of the lower lobe of the right lung. They crawled and sucked on the festering mass.

A swarm took turns burrowing into the two holes in the back of Pangborn's head. The flies sucked, licked and turned the surrounding tissue to soup, which they sucked and licked. The flies grew fatter; everything they took in was shit out in small dots. Soon, they were consuming their own excrement as they burrowed toward softer, wetter tissue.

Later, the flies began to lay eggs in the gore. The sun shone down and cooked the eggs just right. The eggs grew to larva that wiggled under the skin, twitching the tissue as though the men were still alive.

Natural decomposition processes had begun. The organs began to putrefy. Sections of intestine collapsed under their own weight. The feces within the intestine dried and became stone-like. The stomach fell in upon itself. Its acids began to eat through its own tissue, creating noxious fumes that gathered in the trapped area. The urine within the kidneys pooled at the posterior side and turned thick, glue-like. The kidneys sagged onto themselves and the fronts began to adhere to the backs. Pangborn and Navicky were manna for new insectile life.

A pair of carrion birds flew above, eyeing the scene below. Big, black, strong. Hungry. The birds began to dive. They landed, hopped to the two bodies and looked at the buffet before them.

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Gleason finished talking with Dr. Manlowe. She was so excited! She wanted to call Bobby and tell him. Call him! Go on, she told herself. No, no. Do not. It will be bad enough when I tell him I'm leaving. She put him out of her mind. She returned to her salad. I need more rolls, she thought.

Gleason took her bag, walked back to Windy City, and purchased four slices of Italian bread, toasted, with butter and sprinkled with garlic powder. She was starving. Oh, it smelled so good.

She returned to her table and continued eating. She thought about how to spend the rest of her day. The cabbie and she had talked on the way from the hotel. His niece and her husband were students here. Gleason had inquired if he knew of any bookstores near campus.

"Yes," he had said, "my niece, Lisa, works at a used bookstore called George's Book."

He told her it was on Maple Street between Hamlin and Foster, near Philbrick Park. Gleason thought she could walk it from here. She decided to go there next.

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Bobby continued looking through the results of the Canvettelli search, looking for the gallery owner. "Apparently Mr. Canvettelli has no priors," he said to Eames. He sat back in his chair. "This has hit an official dead end," he told her.

She took a sip of tea; she was on a tea kick now, and replied, "So, what's left? We've exhausted all the leads. Right?"

"Well, there's still that piece of tubing I've been trying to find," he replied.

"What did you find? Anything?"

"Nothing. I need to get to a hardware store and talk to someone who knows about this kind of hose." The exasperation was obvious in his tone.

"What about the garage downstairs? Cars have hoses. Maybe one of the techs down there would have an idea about the hose." Eames suggested.

Bobby sat up. "You know, they just might." He glanced over at Deakins' office. Eames knew what he was thinking. The forensic garage was in the lower level of the parking deck. He would not be 'leaving' if he just went down to the garage. He looked back at Eames. She looked at him. "Should I?" he asked her.

"Don't involve me in your little escapade," Eames replied.

Bobby sat back and pursed his lips, considering. Suddenly, he stood up, grabbed his portfolio, and said to Eames, "You know where I'll be." He turned and headed to the lifts.

"Don't get into trouble," she said to no one.

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Gleason was beginning to regret walking to George's Book. The cab driver had said it was secluded. She crossed Sheridan and walked along Foster. And walked and walked. She crossed Orrington and Sherman, and then she crossed a set of railroad tracks. Finally, she saw Maple. The cabbie had said to turn right onto Maple and the bookstore would be on the right.

There it is, at last! She pulled open the door and was struck by how cramped the store was. This is a place to spend hours, she thought. I should have started here today. A lovely young woman came forward from between two far shelf units.

"May I help you find anything in particular?" she asked.

"Actually, do you have a chair?" Gleason responded with a weak smile.

"Oh, you walked," she returned the smile. "We are a bit far from campus. Here, come this way." The sweet girl lead Gleason through the rows of shelves and they ended at a wonderful space outfitted with arm chairs, small tables, a love seat, floor lamps and soft music. Scented candles spiced the air.

"This is wonderful," Gleason said.

"Here, let me take that raincoat." She took the heavy garment and hung it on a hook set with others on the far wall. Gleason was glad to be rid of the weight. "Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?"

"Oh, I wish I'd found you earlier today. Tea would be so good. Thank you."

"Well, here is a basket of different kinds of tea. The water is always hot in this spigot. Creamer and sweetener or sugars are here if you like, and here is a clean mug." The young woman offered Gleason a deep blue mug.

"Thank you so much," Gleason said.

"Help yourself. My name is Lisa if you need me."

"I think I met your uncle. He suggested I come here. I'm glad to meet you. I'm Gleason."

"Good to meet you. Make yourself at home."

Gleason made a cup of chamomile tea and sat for a bit, resting. I will come here often, she said to herself.


	24. Chapter 24

128

Aligned Design

Ch 24

Bobby stepped off the lift and headed to the counter station in the forensic garage. He was looking for Mike, a buddy of his.

"Hi, is Mike around?" he asked a young fellow.

"Hey! Mike! Someone to see you," the guy hollered. "He's under that Hummer," he said to Bobby, nodding toward a huge, black vehicle.

"Thanks," Bobby replied and walked over to the Hummer. He saw his buddy's legs and gut sticking out from the chassis. He gave Mike's leg a nudge. "Mike, you under there?"

The rest of the body slid out and looked up at Bobby. "Hey, Bobby! What brings you down here?"

"Hi, Mike." Bobby leaned down and gave a hand to his pal, hauling him up off the floor. "Say, I was wondering if you could help me identify or locate a specific kind of tubing or hose."

"Sure. You have a piece?"

"Uh, no. This hose or tubing was used to strangle a vic in a case we're working on. The ligature marks indicate a somewhat narrow tube with some kind of wire wrapped around it. I, I kind of sketched what I think it looks like." Bobby opened his portfolio and pulled out a loose sheet. "Here, I'm thinking it may look like this." He handed the sketch to Mike.

"About how wide would you say this tubing is?" Mike asked looking from the sketch to his friend.

Bobby tilted his head and said, "As best as I could tell from the marks on the guy's neck, it's about an inch, maybe an inch and a quarter around. Sort of like that drawing, I guess." He closed his folder and held it against his stomach.

Mike was quiet a moment, then he said softly, "Yeah, Bobby, I've seen this kind of hose." Bobby noticed a slight change in his friend. His voice had dropped. He spoke slower. He didn't make eye contact.

Bobby said nothing, he just watched his friend. He waited. Finally, he bent to the right and looked up into Mike's face. He raised his eyebrows when Mike at last looked at him.

"Was the vic gay?" Mike asked quietly.

This was a surprise. "Uh, yeah, he was. Why do you ask?" Bobby replied just as softly.

Mike hesitated, and then said, "Ok. This kind of hose is used in a certain type of sex act enjoyed by gay men." Mike looked Bobby straight in the eye. Bobby looked straight back at him. Neither said anything. Nothing needed to be said. It was perfectly clear.

"Where would one find this kind of tubing?" Bobby asked.

The moment was over. "Well, it's a kind of hose used to brew beer at home. You can get it at any brewery supply place. They stock it." Mike looked at Bobby. Bobby waited, knowing more was coming. He was not disappointed. "Uh, there's a place on West fifty-seventh. Brew Haus."

"Thanks Mike."

"Yeah," he replied softly. Bobby turned and started for the lifts. Mike called out, "Hey, Bobby, I hear you have a pretty serious thing going with a professor woman?"

Bobby stopped dead. He couldn't believe it. People know about Gleason? In the garage? Jesus. He half turned and said, "Yeah, something like that." He held up a hand in a half wave and continued to the lift.

Mike's gay?

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Gleason finished her tea. Oh, she was tired. I've over done it, she told herself. I'll look around here a bit and then get a cab back to the hotel. She wanted to prepare for tomorrow.

She looked up and down the rows of bookcases. The store was cramped, but well organized. Every book was well used, but in good condition. Gleason wandered, perusing.

Lisa stepped around the corner of a tall stack and smiled. "The good stuff is upstairs. First editions, rare finds. You are welcome to take a look. Casey, my husband, is up there. He'll help you with the locked cases if you want to see anything up close. We have gloves if you need; some of the pieces require gloves." Lisa had a beautiful smile.

"Thank you, I will."

Lisa pointed to a narrow staircase set into the wall. You'd not see it if you weren't looking for it.

Gleason smiled and headed up.

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Bobby returned to the eleventh floor. Eames was munching small carrots. "So, find out anything?"

Oh, yeah, he said to himself as he dropped into his chair. "Yep. This type of hose is used in the brewing of home beer," he told her. "There's a place on west fifty-seventh that sells it. I want to go check out their records." He wasn't going to tell Eames the other use for the hose until they were in the car. He didn't want to talk about Mike in the office. He wouldn't do that.

"Bobby . . .," Eames started.

"God damn it! I am sick and fucking tired of –," Bobby was about to slam his fists on the desktop. But he didn't. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Son-of-a-bitch, he said to himself. I did it again. He looked up at Eames. He saw it. Fear. Fuck! she's afraid of me.

"Eames," he started. She swallowed whatever was in her mouth and stood up. She picked up her cup and walked away.

Shit! He shoved his portfolio across his desk and sat back in his chair. He continued leaning back, stretching out, staring at the ceiling, hands on his chest. Thinking of nothing.

Deakins glanced up and over at him, through the glass wall of his office. What is he doing? Bobby looked like he was relaxing. Well, at least he's not raging, Deakins said to himself and went back to his report.

This is stupid, Bobby thought. I am wasting time here. I want to go to the brew supply house and find out who purchased this particular hose. Deakins will let me go if I tell him about this lead. I bet he will.

Who am I kidding. I can't go. What if I lose it again? Besides, Eames is going nowhere with me. I'll be lucky if she comes back to her desk. He sat up and checked his watch. Three-forty-two. I'll hang out here for a while then head out.

Bobby wanted to get some things for when Gleason came home. Hell, he could go anywhere on his own time. Just not on the clock. He felt himself getting hot again. Oh, Christ, stop it, will you, he said to himself. Think of her. She's coming home.

He flipped open his notebook and began to make a list of things to do and buy this evening. He wanted to get another bottle of Silver Birch wine for her. He wanted to get some tomatoes; she loves tomatoes. And cheese – Eames had been talking about some kind of cheese her brother brought back from St. Louis, Provel or something. It sounded good. He'd look for that. Flowers. He wanted to have flowers when she came home. He would get some candles as well. He'd make dinner. Spaghetti, she liked his spaghetti. And a nice salad. No, he'd make sliced tomatoes with mozzarella – her favorite. Some Italian bread, too.

Dessert, what about dessert? He was never good about dessert. Cheesecake, he liked cheesecake. However, she would say it was too heavy after spaghetti. What would she like? Ice cream? Still too heavy. Fruit! Sliced peaches. Fresh sliced peaches with a light cream. If he could find them. He'd even get a tablecloth. Everything had to be perfect.

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Eames took her cup and walked to the crash room. It was empty. She sat on the bench between the two rows of locker cubes. She couldn't believe what had just happened. He had been fine. He was more than fine – happy. He'd gotten some new information and could see a plan. Then, she said his name and he went off. At least he didn't scream at her or throw anything. She had to admit it, she was afraid of him. Deakins needs to take his weapon. I don't trust him.

Eames wanted to go home. She felt like crap. The beginning of a headache was making its way up the back of her neck. She felt fat, hence the carrots. God, I hate carrots, she said to herself. Edward. I'm going to tell him to go to his place tonight. I need a few Edward-free days. Maybe an Edward-free week.

She really didn't want to go back to her desk. She looked at her watch. Three-forty-eight. Maybe Bobby will just up and leave. Fat chance of that, she thought. Well, I can't sit in here for the rest of the afternoon. I need to speak to Deakins about Bobby's weapon. She stood and headed for the boss's office.

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A huge panel truck lumbered through the gate at Big Apple Storage. It parked between the second and third buildings. The man and his son hopped out, raised the back panel on the truck and then unlocked and raised the door to the storage unit.

Together, they began to empty the unit and fill the truck. They filled the back edge of the truck and then the younger man hopped up and moved the boxes to the interior. The older man and younger man passed small talk between them.

Neither one noticed the two rotting bodies on the far side of the unit. They didn't hear the frenzied buzzing of the flies. The height of the buildings kept the faint smell from making it to their noses. Navicky and Pangborn continued to rot in the late afternoon sun. The flies and pair of birds continued to feast.

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Eames knocked on Deakins open door. "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure, have a seat," the boss said. "What's up?"

"I feel like a kid in school, tattling," Eames said uneasily.

"What'd he do?"

Eames thought a minute then answered, "He flared up at me again. Right there at the desk." It was hard for her to look at Deakins.

"What precipitated it?"

"He went down to the garage to find out about that piece of hose he's been talking about; the murder weapon used on the artist."

Deakins interrupted her with, "He went down to the garage?"

"That's not the point. He found out what it is and where to get it. He wanted to go check out the records of sale. He was ready to get up and go and I said, 'Bobby' because I thought he should check with you first and he blew." Eames felt sick.

"Why are you telling me this? You wouldn't say anything if there wasn't something else."

Eames struggled. "I, I just wonder if Bobby should continue to carry his piece." She spoke so softly.

Deakins had considered this. He didn't want to think it was this bad. Goren was not going outside. Deakins honestly didn't think Bobby would do anything foolish, no matter how sick he was. Deakins also knew he was a fool to believe that.

Neither said anything for a long minute. "You think this is a good idea?" he asked her.

"I would never suggest such a thing if I wasn't certain."

"Ok, Alex. Thanks."

Eames rose and went to get some tea.

Deakins sat. He didn't want to move. He certainly did not want to take a weapon from one of his detectives. He knew he had no choice. He got up and walked to his door. Goren was at his desk, busily writing. God, if you didn't know he was sick, you'd not know he was sick.

"Bobby," he called.


	25. Chapter 25

141

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Ch 25

"Have a seat." Deakins shut the door.

Bobby sat and knew something was up. He watched his boss struggle. This is bad, he thought.

"Bobby, I need to take your weapon." Deakins said it in one breath.

He stared at Deakins. He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"

Oh, don't make me say it again, thought Deakins. "I need to take your weapon."

Bobby couldn't believe it. Deakins watched him. Bobby stood and unclipped the holster from his belt. He took a step and placed it on Deakins' desk. He stepped back and said flatly, "Do you want my shield as well?"

"Bobby," Deakins answered sadly, softly.

"No, really, it's not a problem. Here." Bobby took his shield from his breast pocket and set it on Deakins' desk, beside his weapon. He stepped back and put up two hands, like he does, "You know, why don't I turn in my work ID, too? That way, I can't get back in and make any trouble." Bobby placed his ID beside his shield and weapon. He began to pace, arms flailing. "Why don't you just reinstate my suspension? Let's lock out the sick fuck until he's useful again. Is that it?"

Deakins watched Bobby work himself up. This is not good, not good at all. Deakins stood up and said loudly, "God damn it, Goren, knock it off!"

Bobby stopped and turned. His face was dark. He was still pissed. But he was listening.

"I am sick and tired of coddling you," Deakins started. "You know you are not yourself right now. So, don't play martyr with me. Pick up your shield and ID. I want you to lock up your weapon and then go to the range. I want your scores up to where they were by next Thursday. Do you understand? Then I want you to go to your appointment in the morning and tell Dr. Stephens anything she wants to know. Then you get your ass in here ready to work. Any questions?"

Bobby looked down at the floor and looked up contritely. He moved to the desk and retrieved his weapon, shield, and ID. "I, uh, I need the key to the locker," he said quietly.

"You know where it is." Bobby took the key and left.

Deakins sat and put his hands on his face. Jesus, that was just like talking with – yelling at – Julie, his youngest daughter. Instead of the firing range, it was cleaning her room. I don't need a son, he thought.

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Gleason huffed and puffed her way to the top of the stairs in George's Books. She stood at the top of the steps and caught her breath. When she was able, she began to look around.

"Hello," a young, good-looking, light-haired man stood up from the floor where he was dusting shelves.

"Hello. You must be Casey. I met your wife downstairs. She said the good stuff is up here," Gleason said.

"Yes, we've got some nice things. We're fortunate, I guess. Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

"No, not really; I'll just look around if that's ok."

"Certainly." Casey smiled and returned to his dusting.

Gleason strolled around. The area up here was less cramped. Books sat on shelves in short cases. An old glass fronted barrister's case held a collection of first editions. She saw E.B. White, Wanda Gag, even a J.R.R. Tolkien!

She really liked this bookstore. It could become a favorite place. She liked this young couple. They were kind, she could tell. They were a lovely, young couple.

Thinking of them made her think of Bobby. Suddenly her heart sank. She missed him. She thought of his shy smile. How he looked at her. The way she would catch him stealing looks at her. His hands, fingers – and what he did with them. His body. How he made love to her. Oh, God, she did love him.

"Excuse me." Casey looked up and then stood. "You don't have anything by Reuben Lesky, do you?" she asked.

"Actually, yes! He's very popular in this area. He spoke here three years ago. He was great, but kind of hard to understand, his accent and all. But it was terrific to have him lecture. His agent or whomever had put his lecture on slides and they were projected. Have you read him?"

"No, not me. A friend has quite a collection of his works. I thought it might be nice to find something to add to the collection."

"What does your friend already have?"

"Oh, goodness, I couldn't even begin to name them," Gleason admitted. "He's got a whole shelf full."

"Well, does your friend have any of Lesky's poetry?"

"I don't know. But I would guess not. I'm not sure he knows Lesky is a poet."

"Not many people do. Actually, most of his poetry is quite erotic." Casey said this and then looked down. Gleason could see him redden slightly. What a sweet man, she thought with a smile.

"Would you have a copy of his poetry?"

"Oh, yes we do. It's a signed first edition. Here, let me show you."

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Bobby unlocked the top weapon locker, his, and set his holster and weapon inside. He locked it and returned the key to Deakins office.

"I'm going to the range. Then I'm going home. OK?"

Deakins looked up. "Bobby. . ."

"I know. I know," he said sadly, putting up both hands. Bobby turned and went back to his desk. He shut down his computer, straightened up the folders. He cleaned off the top of his desk and picked up his portfolio. He grabbed his coat and turned to head to the lifts.

Eames was coming right at him. He watched her look away and then slow down. He knew she was trying to avoid him. Bobby stopped and then went toward her.

"Eames," he said and she stopped. "Look, I, I'm sorry for that back there. I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I can't control it. Things are not good. I probably shouldn't even be here." He said all of this looking at the floor. His hands didn't even move. "I'm, I'm just really sorry." He looked up at her with this.

Eames saw pain and defeat, worry and such sadness. "Bobby, it's OK. I know things are weird right now. It will get better." She didn't know what else to say.

He nodded and headed to the lifts.

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A green van backed into the drive between the first and second buildings in the second row of storage units at Big Apple. Four women got out and one lifted the door to the first unit. The two opened the back of the van and started folding and stowing the rear seats, enlarging the cargo area. The other stood and sniffed.

"Jeeze, do you smell that?" she asked.

The other three entered the storage unit and began shifting boxes to the front.

"What?" the pretty one asked.

"That smell. Smell it? Like something dead."

"Ha, there's probably a body in one of these units. Can't you see it? Film at eleven!" the stupid one suggested.

"It's probably a dead animal over in the brush over there. Here, set these in the back first," the smart one said.

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Bobby drove to the NYPD Redman's Neck Firing Range in the Bronx. He swiped his ID to sign in and checked out his usual weapon. He walked to the furthest open lane, racked a 24x45-paper target of "The Thug" and ran it out all the way on the pulley. He slid on goggles and sound blocking earphones, took his stance, aimed and shot.

He nailed seven of twelve shots within the center oval, the kill zone, on the target. Not nearly good enough, he needed at least ten of twelve shots within the center oval. He needed to do that every time. Bobby was shooting at the Advanced Silhouette Target, SP-83A. It showed a broad-shouldered male outline with a smaller oval set inside a larger one. The larger oval outlined the area from neck to waist and the smaller oval indicated the central chest – lungs and heart, the kill zone.

Bobby ran the target back toward him, unclipped it, stuck the corner in the time stamp machine at his station and initialed the corner. He ripped another target off the pad hanging on the corral wall separating his lane from the next, clipped it to the rack and slid it out.

For the next hour, Bobby shot twelve targets. His best score was nine of twelve inside the kill zone and his worst was six of twelve. At his consistent best, before he broke his hand in a fit of temper, Bobby shot ten and eleven of twelve. Deakins wanted those scores by Thursday. He would have to work hard to get back at those scores in a week. He'd have to be here every night. But not tomorrow night, not Saturday night, not Sunday night. Gleason's coming home.

He replaced the goggles, wiped and stowed the sound muffs. He gathered up his targets, rolled and banded them and then stopped at the cleaning station and cleaned the weapon. He walked to the front and returned his weapon, turned in his targets and slid his ID to sign out.

It was six forty. He headed for the gym.

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"Did he threaten you?" Sledge asked Eames. They were having a nice quiet dinner at a new place on Mulberry. He had suggested it when she met him in the parking deck to tell him to stay at his place tonight.

"No, he didn't threaten me. He just went off, verbally. I saw him catch himself, though, before he completely lost it."

"Man what is wrong with him?"

"I told Deakins he should take Bobby's piece."

Sledge looked at her. "You did what?"

"I told Deakins I didn't think Bobby should be armed. Frankly, I don't trust him the way he is."

"Did Deakins take it?"

"I saw Bobby at his weapon locker, so I have to think so."

"Jesus, Alex. Do you know what that says?"

"Yes, Edward, it says that my partner is mentally ill right now and should not be carrying a gun. What? Do you think I was wrong to say something?"

"No. Not wrong. It's just . . . Christ, to have your weapon confiscated." Sledge thought this through for a moment. "Do you think Goren's ever going to be the way he was?"

"I hope so," she responded sadly.

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"How are you this evening?" The pretty girl at the front desk in the gym was nice to everyone. She was especially nice to Bobby. She flirted unabashedly. "You've been coming pretty regularly, huh?" She smiled and leaned forward over the counter, presenting her assets for Bobby's perusal.

"Yeah, hi," he responded, setting down the pen and walking toward the locker room.

He's the best thing to come in here in a long while, the pretty girl thought. He's really kind of quiet, but I bet there's good noise to be had under that suit. She went back to her magazine.

Bobby changed and went to the treadmill first. Once again, he raised the incline and started running. He picked up speed over the minutes. He felt good running. Once again, he saw himself running away from his life. Away from his anger, his temper, his job. He ran from Eames, Deakins, and Ritchie. He ran from his mother. Gleason came to mind. Bobby ran toward her. He ran faster and faster.

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"This is wonderful," Gleason said with awe. "Look at this." She was examining the copy of Reuben Lesky's _Erotische Poesie_. The slim volume was bound in deep brown, soft leather. The tome bore beautifully marbleized end papers, poems were written on rich vellum paper with deckled edges. It was in German. And signed.

Gleason looked up at Casey in disbelief. Bobby speaks German! He will be able to read this. "You, you don't happen to read German, do you?" Gleason asked.

"'Gehzunheit' is about it," Casey said with a shy smile.

"Oh, this is perfect," Gleason said. "I'd like to purchase this, please."

"Certainly. Let's go downstairs. Lisa will take care of that for you." Casey led the way to the top of the stairs and let Gleason go first.

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Bobby sucked air as he slowed on the treadmill. He had run faster, further than ever before. He needed to lean on the arm rails. He felt tremendous. He was soaked.

"Boy, you really ran hard," said the pretty girl from the front desk. She looked sixteen, but was probably legal. "Here, let me get your towel," she grabbed it from the floor where it had fallen. Bobby reached for it, still gasping, but she slipped it away and climbed up on the incline behind him. She put the towel on his neck and rubbed gently, massaging. He reached up and stopped her hand. He turned around, without letting go.

The pretty girl looked up at him. He is gorgeous, she thought. So big, strong, sweaty. Look at those arms. She smiled. He looked hard at her. She was flawless. So young. Tight. Willing.

"Uhm, do you want to get something to drink?" she asked. "I can get you something now. Or, we could go get something somewhere else. You don't need to shower, if you don't want to."

Bobby still hadn't said anything. He thought about what she was offering. She is beautiful, he thought. "How old are you?" he asked her.

"I'm twenty-two. I know, I get carded all the time." She smiled an incredible smile. Her eyes slid down his wet tee shirt, to his gym shorts, to the slight stiffy making itself known. She felt his thumb stroke the back of her hand. His hand swallowed hers.

"Well, do you want to get something or what?" she asked.

Bobby looked at her. He moved his eyes from her face to her neck to her chest. She was what one would call 'endowed.' Her bra top was cut low enough and high enough to show everything to its advantage. He looked at her flat, tight stomach stretching bare above the jeans slung on her hips. Those jeans also showed five inches of flat below her navel. Jesus.

"I want to do several sets on the weights," he said deeply.

"Sure, you go on. I like hard men." She smiled innocently and set her hand on his chest. "I'll wait for you at the desk. You don't need to shower." She turned and showed the rest of her assets as she walked away. Bobby watched and felt himself stiffen further.


	26. Chapter 26

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Ch 26

"Edward, how about if you stay at your place tonight?" Eames said as they left the restaurant.

Edward stood close and slid her hair behind her ear with his left index finger. "Everything ok?" he asked.

"Yes, sure. I just want to have a night alone, that's all." She looked up at him. Don't you go horny now, she said to herself. Damn, he was looking so good in this light.

He moved closer and said deeply, slowly, "Ok, if you want." He stepped in and kissed her neck. She felt his tongue, the tug as he sucked gently. "Do you want me to follow you? Make sure you get home safe?" he said, nuzzling. Then Edward looked at her deeply, steadily. He took her head in his hands and he kissed her softly, slowly. She returned his nearly chaste kiss with a flare of want that shot his eyebrows north. She moved into him.

"Oh, Christ, come home with me," Eames said hoarsely.

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"So, you found something, did you?" Lisa asked coming forward from somewhere among the stacks.

"I did indeed!" Gleason was very pleased with the signed volume. "My friend will like this." She met Lisa at the small counter at the front of the store.

Lisa took the book and looked at it. She smiled. "Ah, I take it your friend is a 'special friend'?"

Suddenly Gleason remembered everything. Bobby had screamed at her, cursed at her. He had frightened her. She had decided not to go back to him. She was moving back into her own flat. Her face fell. She didn't respond.

Lisa looked at the tall woman and noticed the change. "Uh, we don't take credit cards. Cash or checks only. I hope that's ok." She waited, watching the other woman. It was as if the lady had remembered something unpleasant.

"Yes, that's fine. I have cash," Gleason said softly, sadly. Gleason counted out the money.

"I can wrap it for you in paper. We don't have bags here." She said taking the money.

"That's fine. Thank you." Gleason was subdued. "I'm going to walk back and get my raincoat," she told Lisa.

Casey moved to the counter. He and Lisa watched the tall woman walk back through the stacks to the lounging area along the back wall. "That's a nice sale," he told his wife.

"Yes, it is."

"She's really excited."

"Well, she was. Something changed." Lisa tied the brown paper package with old-fashioned string.

Gleason made her way back to the front lugging the enormous raincoat over her arm. "I was wondering if you might call a cab for me?" Gleason asked with a sad smile.

"I can take you where you want to go," Casey offered.

"Oh, no. Don't be silly. I'll take a cab."

"Really, Casey can take you. It's not a problem."

Gleason looked from her to him. "Are you sure?"

They both nodded. "It would be my pleasure," Casey said with a smile.

"All right. Thank you. I'm at the Hilton Garden Inn on Maple. Are you sure?"

"Really, it's no problem. Let me bring the car around." Casey leaned over the counter and kissed his wife. It was a lingering kiss. Gleason looked away, her heart breaking.

Casey left and Gleason turned to Lisa and said, "Thank you for being so kind to me."

Lisa tried not to look at her oddly. "Well, sure. Casey and I are glad you stopped in. And not just because of the nice sale. Are you a student here?"

"No, I have an interview tomorrow morning for a teaching position here. I have a strong feeling I'm going to get it." Gleason said this with less enthusiasm than one might have imagined.

"Oh, well, good luck." After a moment of awkward silence, Lisa continued, "You'll probably have to move then? Where do you live now?"

"New York."

"Oh, New York! Wow. Will you be bringing family with you?"

Gleason had been looking out the front window. She said nothing for a moment, then turned and looked at Lisa, "No. No I won't."

Lisa saw the sadness in the other woman's face then saw the car pull up out front. "Oh, here he is. Well, thank you for stopping. Good luck tomorrow. I hope you come back." She had come around the counter whilst talking. The two women looked at each other and then embraced.

"Thank you," Gleason whispered.

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"Jesus, Alex, enough." Edward could not go again. He was spent. "Aren't you tired, Hon?"

"I could sleep . . . but I want to play," she said with a lithe stretch and lascivious smile. She reached for his package and he bent and pulled away.

"Honey, what is with you?" He wasn't complaining, it's just . . . Jesus, he's not twenty anymore.

"Oh, come on, Big Boy, I want to play. If I can't play with you, then you play with me." Eames rolled onto her back and took Sledge's left hand. She snuggled close beside him, put his hand between her legs and said, "Now play."

Sledge extended his middle finger and slid it inside. Eames hissed and arched. Sledge felt himself begin to fill again. His mouth went to her breast and he sucked.

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Neither Casey nor Gleason spoke on the short ride from the bookstore to the hotel. Casey was aware of his shyness and was comfortable with the quiet. Gleason was preoccupied with thoughts of Bobby.

Why did she buy that book? What was she thinking? She was not going to see Bobby again, not on purpose, anyway. He would find her, she was sure of that. But she would not see him. It was over.

Gleason always knew she could not trust him. Didn't she always think he might turn on her? See, you never really know what lies beneath. She shouldn't have let him get this close.

God she was tired. Her legs ached. She was hungry again, too. She had so much to do tonight. All she wanted to do was take a nap.

"Well, here you are," Casey said, looking over at the lady.

"Casey, thank you so much for the ride. Let me give you something," Gleason reached inside her purse.

"No way! It was my pleasure! You were my good deed for today, so I'm done. I don't have to be nice to anyone else," he said with a shy smile.

Gleason smiled at this sweet young man. How lucky he and his pretty wife were to have found each other and to know that they were right for each other. Gleason felt an odd stab of envy. "Thank you again, Casey. Please give Lisa my best. Take care of each other. What you have is rare." She reached for the door handle but Loomis beat her to it.

"We hope to see you again," Casey said as she exited. He waved and Gleason returned it. He pulled away and Gleason turned to the doorman.

"Welcome back, Dr. Wintermantle. Did you get something to eat today?"

"Yes, Loomis I did. And I'm hungry again." Loomis opened the door for her and she stepped through into the lobby. "This raincoat belongs to the hotel. Paul lent it to me for today. Is he still around? I'd like to return it to him."

"You let me take care of this for you." Loomis took the raincoat from her. "Boy, this is heavy, huh? Did you wear this thing all day?"

"Only during the rainy parts," she said with a smile. "Thanks for doing that, Loomis. I'm heading up to the room for a bit. Then some dinner."

Loomis nodded and walked behind the desk with the coat. Gleason headed to the lifts.

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Bobby lifted weights until he could not lift one more time. He sat on the bench, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. He did more sets with his left arm than his right. He didn't think he'd ever be able to lift his left arm again.

He had increased his reps by five. He was getting stronger. He noticed the change in his upper arms. Bobby decided to add working his pectorals next. He also wanted to get back to doing push-ups and sit-ups at home.

He sat up. He thought of the pretty girl at the desk. God, she was offering it up. She said she was old enough. She looks so good. He could do with a little bit. It would be good.

Bobby stood up and flexed his arms. She said not to shower. No problem. He walked to the locker room to change.


	27. Chapter 27

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Ch 27

Gleason entered her hotel room, tossed her bag on the bed and went to the bathroom. It had occurred to her that she seemed to be going to the bathroom often. She dismissed the thought, kicked off her shoes, and pulled off her socks. Both were damp as were her jeans, from hem to calf. She felt chilled. Oh, don't let me be getting a cold. Not before tomorrow morning, she thought.

She filled the in-room coffee pot with water and set it to heat. She arranged the legs of her jeans on the heater and turned the heat on high. Then she took her last pair of socks from the carpetbag and pulled them on. She climbed into bed to wait for the water to heat for a cup of tea. And promptly fell asleep.

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Bobby washed his face and ran a wet cloth around his neck, over his chest and under his arms. He dressed without bothering with his undershirt. He left the top three buttons open on his dress shirt. He changed his tube socks for his dress socks and stepped into his trousers, then into his shoes. He was looking forward to this little interlude.

Women had flirted with him before. But this, this was different. This was more than flirting. She was offering it. She was so young, pretty. Easy. He wanted to. He'd never wanted to before in a situation like this. He didn't usually think it was right, to take a woman like that. But what the fuck, he thought.

He gathered up his clothes, stuffed them into his gym bag on top of his tennis shoes, zipped it shut and then put on his suit coat. Now, let's go get us some, he thought with a smile.

Bobby slammed shut his locker and the sound shocked his ears. Are you out of your mind, he shouted to himself. What are you thinking? Jesus Christ, Goren, you can't fuck that girl out there. Gleason is coming home. You're with Gleason. It was as though he had gone to sleep and another Bobby had come alive in the gym, a nasty, horny Bobby.

He stood for a moment with a hand on the locker door. What's happening to me? I wouldn't do something like that. That's, that's Ritchie, Dad – they would do that with a woman, not me. Bobby felt a slight panic. He would tell Dr. Stephens about this. What else might he do? He was frightened.

Bobby walked through the locker room door to the lobby. The girl was watching for him. "Hey, you ready?" she asked, grabbing her purse, coming around the front of the reception counter.

Bobby ignored her and walked past.

"Hey, wait! Hey!" the girl called.

Bobby stopped at the glass door, hand on the push bar. He waited and then turned. He couldn't look at the girl, "I, I'm sorry, I can't do this. I wanted to, but I, I can't. I'm sorry." He turned and pushed open the door. The night air was cold and damp. He could breathe out here. Gleason's coming home.

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"Unh, unh, oh God, Edw-, uh, uh unnnnhhhh," Eames came again. Edward watched her orgasm on top of him. He was not quite there, but God he loved it when she came. Eames clenched him, ground down. The sounds she made . . . oh, yeah.

Ah, there, there, unh, unh, oh yeah, unh, yeah, there, like that, unnhh . . . In one move Edward grabbed her around the waist and put her on her back. She was still coming, he was still inside her. He lifted up and pushed in hard, pulled out, pushed in and pulled out. Faster, harder. He jammed into her like he never had before. Eames came again and again. Oh, God! God! Unggghhh! Edward rose up on his toes and pushed hard, he stayed up inside, all of him, and he shot it all up into her.

He fell on her. Eames gasped as she calmed. Oh God. Oh God. They both breathed hard.

Edward rolled off onto his back, beside her. I'm gonna die, he thought, right here, in her bed, I'm gonna die naked. He panted; I need to get back to the gym.

Eames slowed her breathing. Dear God, she thought. Oh, that was good. But, that's it. I'm sore. But a good sore. She turned onto her left side, reaching her right arm across his chest.

'No, no more. Hon, I can't. Please. No more," Edward pleaded. He rubbed her right arm with his left hand as it lay gently across his broad chest. "Please, Alex. You're gonna kill me. Please, no more."

Eames smiled at this. "Ok, no more. Let me tell you, mister, you do good work." Alex stretched up, turned his head toward her with her right hand and kissed him gently. "We need to go to sleep." She turned away, reached for the light and snapped it off. "Oh, Edward, throw that condom in the toilet, ok?"

"Sure, give me a tissue." Edward reached over her for the tissue and rolled back to wipe off. He felt for it, and then half sat up to find it. "Alex, Hon, turn on the light a minute."

"Hmmmm?" she asked sleepily.

"Alex, turn on the light, I can't find the condom."

"What?" she sat up and snapped the light back on. "What do you mean you can't find it? Where is it?" She pulled his right thigh away from his left and searched between his legs. He moved his goods around, looking. It was nowhere to be found.

Edward stopped and looked at her. "Alex, if it's not out here, it must be inside you. It must have come off."

Alex looked at him in disbelief. "Can that happen? Can it come off inside?"

"Well, sweetheart, you were doing some major grabbing in there and I was pumping pretty good. I guess it could under those ideal circumstances. Lie down and spread 'em," he said with a wicked grin.

"Oh my God, Edward, what are you going to do?" She could not believe this.

"Well, unless you want to go fishing, I am. Now lie back, open up, and enjoy this. But, I'm warning you, I cannot go another time. So don't get crazy with my handiwork."

"Jesus Christ, Edward. What do you think I am? This is serious. We have to get that out. Now do this right. Be serious," she said, stretching out, legs wide.

Edward got close beside her and slid the middle finger of his left hand up inside her. He felt around. She was soaking wet inside. And hot. He looked up at her. Alex's eyes were closed. He smiled slightly. He pulled his finger out and slid in two. He heard her draw a quick breath. He felt around again. He curved his fingers slightly and pulled them along her inner walls. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out feeling for anything. He slid them back in slowly. He pulled, felt, slid in.

Methodically, he did this. Slowly Eames responded, a slight shift of her leg. An imperceptible move to meet his hand. Then, a change in her breathing. "Edward. . ." she breathed.

"Does it feel good?" he asked deeply. He watched her. God, she is incredible. I love that I can do this to her, make her feel this way. Jesus, I love her.

Alex arched her back a little. "Edward, stop, that's . . . that's good. Ungh, Edward stop."

He watched her, moving his hand faster, just a bit. "Edward . . . oh, god, Edward. Good."

"Do you want me to stop?" his voice was deep, sensuous.

"No, no don't . . . uh, unh, unh, oh god."

Edward put his mouth on her left breast and flicked the nipple with his tongue. He tugged it with his teeth. He sucked. Her breathing was rushed. He wanted to fuck her again, but he knew he couldn't. He slid up against her, lifting his left leg over her left, she moved her left leg between his. He pushed against her hip in a quick rhythm, rubbing his parts against her. He moaned into her nipple.

"Oh, god, Edw-, ungh, ungh, ungh." Her sounds were coming faster; she rose to meet his hand. "I'm gonna come, oh god, Edward, oh god . . . . ungh, Ungh, UNNGGHH!" Alex slammed against his hand and convulsed beside him.

Edward ground against her hip, he didn't come exactly, but it was good, whatever it was. He watched her slow, saw her pulse in her neck. She was covered in sweat. He withdrew his fingers and rubbed her stomach. "Are you done?" he asked her with a smile.

Alex stretched and rolled back against him on her right side. "Oh god, Edward. The things you do. Jesus." She snuggled against him. Suddenly, she tensed, "Wait, what about the condom? Did you get it?" She turned and looked at him over her left shoulder. "Did you?"

"No, I didn't. But don't worry. It will come out by itself. I'm sure this is not the first condom to come off and get lost up there. Let's go to sleep. Come on. Lie down. He stretched over her and turned off the light. He reached to the foot of the bed and pulled up the sheet and blanket that had gotten kicked away. He covered her and held her close. I love this woman, he said to himself. They slept.

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Bobby sat in his vehicle, hands on the wheel, thinking. I can't believe I considered sleeping with that girl. I wouldn't have done it. I'd have stopped myself. I did stop. I did. I didn't act on it.

But he remembered the feeling, though. He had imagined what he was going to do with her. Oh, she'd be in his lap, all right, head first, then otherwise.

He closed his eyes and couldn't believe he was thinking that. Bobby put his elbows on the wheel and placed his fingers against his lips. What is happening to me?

Bobby forced himself to think of Gleason. He saw her in his mind's eye. Her beauty, that hair. He heard her voice, deep, throaty. God he loved her. He would do anything to keep her. Keep her happy. Keep her with him.

He turned the key in the ignition and headed for an all night grocery.

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She couldn't find him! She stopped and listened again. Oh, he's crying, where is he? She stepped into the cornrows on the left side of the road. She wanted to call to him, but she didn't know his name. She walked in a few steps, pushing apart the stalks.

She stopped to listen again. There, behind her, across the road. She turned, stepped from the corn, and stood in the middle of the road. Where is he? Her panic was growing. His crying became louder, more desperate.

"Where are you?" She called out. She looked into the meadow on her right. Wildflowers and weeds grew low in the field. She crossed to the split rail fence and stepped over where it had fallen down, walking toward the middle of the field.

She had never left the road before and here she was, getting into the corn, stepping over fences and traipsing through a field. But she had never had to find her little boy before. I have a little boy? she wondered. Where is he? He's crying. Why is he crying?

She started walking down the slope of the meadow. The stonewall was below, at the far end. The crying got louder. "I'm coming. Where are you?" she called.

There he is! There he is! She began to run toward him. She slowed as she saw a man, what is that man doing? She watched him pick up her little boy. The child wrapped himself around the man, hugging tightly. That's . . . Bobby. She waved to him and started to run again. She stopped and watched Bobby walk away with her son. Their son. "Wait! Wait for me! Bobby, wait." He didn't stop.

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Bobby ran back down the steps and jogged down the block to his car. He lifted the last three bags out of the rear of the SUV and slammed the lid shut, clicking it locked. He returned to his flat and began to unload the bags of groceries. But first, he ran the water hot in the sink and took the white vase from under the sink. It had held the arrangement Eames had sent when his dad died. He was glad he had kept it.

He removed the wrapping from the flowers and filled the vase with the hot water. Bobby took his knife from his pocket and cut each stem on a long angle setting each one in the hot water. He arranged the different flowers and was pleased with how it looked. He swept the cut ends off the cutting board and into the bin under the sink.

Next, he made room in the fridge for his purchases. He placed inside two tomatoes, three peaches, a small carton of light cream, the mozzarella, and the bottle of Silver Birch, which he was surprised to find at the all night mega grocery, it had turned out to be worth the drive. He wasn't able to find that Provel cheese, though. Must be a St. Louis-only cheese, he figured. He put the loaf of Italian bread in the bread tin and put the empty plastic bags in the bag holder in the hall closet.

Then he removed the maroon and tan tablecloth from its package. He hoped it was the right size. He cleaned off the table, wiped it and then shook out the tablecloth, spreading it over the edges. It was perfect. Creased, but perfect. I should iron that, he thought. Maybe those creases will fall out. I'll check it in the morning. He opened the package of four napkins as well. He set the flowers in the middle of the table. He had to smile, it looked nice.

Bobby removed the two scented candles from the last bag and sniffed them. The label said "Spring Rain Garden." Smells nice, he thought. He looked around the living room. He decided to set it on the end table. He took the other one to the bedroom. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to stay. I love her so much, he thought.

Gleason woke herself calling out in her sleep. Oh, what a dream, she thought. Bobby was in it. He wouldn't wait for me. And someone was crying. A little boy. Bobby was holding the little boy. And walking away. Oh, what a terrible dream. She felt sluggish. And, she had to pee.

Coming from the bathroom, Gleason saw that it was eight-twenty, nine-twenty in New York. Oh, it's too late to eat anything, she told herself. But she was starving. She checked her jeans to see if they were dry enough to wear. They would do for a quick dinner run. She slipped into them and had to put her feet into her damp shoes. Ugh, she hated the feel of wet leather. She grabbed her wrap and bag and headed to the lobby.

"Dr. Dear, where are you going at this hour?" Antonio asked with a smile.

"I'm going to run down to Wolfgang Puck's for a nice salad. I don't want to eat this late but I am just starved. Can I bring you back anything?"

"No, thank you. I shall go get it for you. You stay here. It is dark out."

"No, you won't," she said, walking toward the door. "I shall be quick about it." And she stepped into the cool, dark air.

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Later that night, after Gleason had set out her clothes for the morning, organized her materials for the interview, and had packed, she thought about calling Bobby. She held the phone. She wanted to tell him about her interview. She wanted him to wish her luck. She wanted him to be happy for her. But then she heard his voice, his words. She set the phone on the desk and plugged it in. She would not call him. Ever.

Later that night, after Bobby finished eating a bowl of cereal, looking at the mail, and reading the paper, he thought about calling Gleason. He held the phone. He wanted to call her and tell her he knew about the interview. That he had figured it out. That he wished her luck if this was what she wanted. That he loved her and always would. That he wanted her to come home and live here with him. That he was sorry for what he said. That he was going to get better. That he would pick her up at the airport. That he loved her. Forever. That he couldn't live without her. That he loved her. But he didn't call her.


	28. Chapter 28

150

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Ch 28

"Robert Goren. I have an eight o'clock appointment with Dr. Stephens," Bobby said to the receptionist. He was nearly twenty minutes early. He hadn't been able to sleep last night. He felt antsy. He kept thinking of Gleason. He didn't know how she'd be. He wanted everything to be perfect.

He had gone through his closet and gotten rid of things he hadn't worn in a long time. That made more room for her things. He reorganized his dresser drawers and the drawers in the chest, getting rid of more things. He filled two large trash bags with clothing. He set them by the door to take with him in the morning. He'd drop them off at St. Michael's Men's Shelter. He moved and discarded enough so the entire chest was empty. She could put all of her things in there. It would be hers. That's good, right?

He had cleaned the bathroom and put his best towels on the rack. He ran the sweeper in the living room and down the hall, into his bedroom. He cleaned off the chair in the bedroom and put away his shoes. He refilled his gym bag and set it by the door with the bags of discarded clothing. He looked around the living room.

He grabbed an old pair of briefs from a bag of discarded clothing and dragged it over surfaces. He straightened up his CDs and restacked his DVDs. He gathered up the newspapers from beside his chair and the kitchen table and set them in a grocery bag for recycling.

What else? He removed the crocheted throw from the back of the sofa, shook it out and refolded it, replacing it over the sofa back. His mum had made that throw, when she was well, when he was just a boy. He needed to go see her. He'd seen her frequently whilst he was off recovering and being suspended. She was having a good run. She was lucid, almost normal if you didn't know how sick she was. He wanted her to meet Gleason, when the time was right.

He went back into the kitchen. It looked clean – no dishes in the sink. He wiped off the counter, moving the coffee pot and the breadbox. He wiped out the microwave. He changed the tea towels. He looked in the fridge, he had all the good things for her to eat, things she liked. Everything would be perfect.

"Yes, Mr. Goren, she'll be right with you. Please have a seat."

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Gleason woke up with a start. Her interview! She looked at the clock, five-ten. Oh, thank goodness. The alarm was set for six. She reached and turned off the alarm and sat on the edge of the bed. Oh, here we go. She was seriously nauseous. Do not get sick, she told herself. Do not! She realized she was clutching the edge of the bed, fighting the urge to throw up. No use!

Afterward she sat on the toilet lid and thought about this throwing up every morning. She did eat late last night, and had eaten all that bread. That has to be it. She had eaten too much. Bread is especially heavy. Her stomach is still adjusting to eating real meals and she has this craving for bread lately.

Craving? She would not allow the thought to take form in her mind. Sick . . . each morning? She shut out everything. No, no, no, no! she said to herself. No, not!

Gleason stood in the shower, thinking. Oh, God. Please, no.

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Bobby was the only person in the waiting room. He sat and leaned back. She's coming home tonight. She's coming home tonight. When he got to the office, he would call the security office at LaGuardia and have them search for Gleason's name on manifests for Metro Air evening flights from O'Hare to LaGuardia. He knew she wouldn't call him to pick her up. She was probably still angry, or frightened, after his shit-head behavior on the phone the other night. Jesus, he would need to talk with Dr. Stephens about that, and everything else.

"Detective," Dr. Stephens said, stepping through the door to her office.

Bobby stood up and extended his hand to his psychiatrist. "Hello, again," he said with a rye smile.

"Come on in," she said, returning the smile.

They settled themselves, she in one leather captain's chair with arms and he in the other. They sat facing each other. Bobby sat back and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and tented his fingers in front of his mouth. He didn't look directly at the doctor.

She noticed his posture – leaning back, retreating within the chair; putting up his leg as a defense; arms in front of his body, protecting himself; hands in front of his mouth, not wanting to say anything; not making eye contact. She knew he was waiting for her to start. She busied herself with her notebook; she put off speaking. She wanted him to start. She saw him stealing looks at her. She smiled to herself.

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Gleason dressed in her linen suit with the cornflower blue shell. It was her best outfit. She rolled her hair in a ring from temple to temple. She owned no jewelry; well, the necklace Bobby had given her, but she'd left that behind when she'd left him. Enough of that, she told herself. She needed to get some breakfast. She took her leather bag and headed for the lobby.

"Good morning, Dr. Wintermantle," Paul called from the desk. "How are you today?"

Gleason walked over to the desk and said, "I'm good, Paul. How are you?"

"I am good, too. I am sad, however, you are checking out today. We will miss you."

"Oh, Paul, you are so sweet. I am certain I will be back. Don't you worry about that." She turned and crossed to the restaurant. Everything had just been set out, as they had just opened not ten minutes ago. She was the first customer.

She took a plate and made her choices. She was so hungry. I need to eat well, she thought; I want to go to the airport straight from the interview. I'll try to stand by on an early flight; her ticket had an open return. Friday, though, she thought, flights from Chicago to New York will probably be full. You never know.

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"You're waiting for me to begin, aren't you?" he asked.

"If you like," she replied.

Jesus Christ, she's playing games with me! I do not have ti--, stop! Stop it right now, he silently shouted to himself. Do not go nuts in here. Of all places, not here. He tilted his head to the left, shut his eyes, twisted his head slightly, and took a quick, deep breath.

Dr. Stephens observed the episode. "What just happened, Detective?"

He glanced at her and sat up, unfolding his leg. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"What happened when I said, 'If you like'?"

Bobby looked at her. He shook his head slowly. "I had an incredible flare of anger at you."

"What did you think, what did you say to yourself?"

Bobby was silent for a moment. He couldn't remember. "I don't remember."

"What do you remember?"

He closed his eyes and squeezed them with the fingers of his left hand. He took a deep breath. "I, I remember this incredible flare of anger. Hot, my head was hot. I saw red and orange. I wanted to smash something."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't."

"Why not, do you think?"

Bobby laughed slightly, ruefully, "I do remember hearing myself say, 'not here, of all places not here.' Those exact words."

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"Edward, stop it," Eames pushed his hand away. Jesus, every morning, the same thing. He persisted, sliding his hand south. "God damn it! Leave me alone. Will you?" She pushed him away and rolled out of bed, nearly stomping across the bedroom to the hallway.

"What? Alex, come on. Ok, ok. Christ." Edward flopped onto his back, waiting for his minor stiffy to ease. What's wrong with her, he wondered. She was a nympho last night. Probably going to be a stay-away week again. Back to my place for a few days, I guess. At least she's not pregnant.

Alex turned on the shower. She was crampy and cranky. Her breasts were tender and her back ached. And, Christ, what's this . . . a zit? Great. Just great. She hated this time of the month. I am ready for this to be over, she thought. Screw the biological clock. Let's unplug it.

This current missing paintings case was frustrating her. She and Bobby seemed to be going nowhere fast. Bobby was being weird, letting things slip in addition to this temper thing he had going. He seemed preoccupied. Gleason's leaving probably precipitated this whole mess. Alex wondered what had happened between them.

She liked Gleason. After being initially intimidated, Alex found the professor to be just a regular person. Granted, she was brilliant, tall, beautiful and sleeping with Bobby, but other than that, Gleason Wintermantle was one of the girls. Or could be, Alex thought. She'd like to get to know her better.

Alex had no real girlfriends. Who had time? She did not socialize with anyone from work. Except Edward. Hell, she thought, sleeping with a colleague can hardly be considered socializing in the mundane sense of the word. She and Bobby used to go for a drink or a sandwich after work sometimes. Not in a while, though. Certainly not since Gleason entered the picture. They used to stop and get lunch occasionally. She missed those times. She missed Bobby.

In all their years working together, he had never indicated any interest in her. He was the consummate professional. Bobby Goren was the most polite man at One Police Plaza. Silly little things like opening the door, letting her go first, getting her coffee or tea, paying when they did get something to eat. Little things that really don't mean anything in the big picture but mean everything to a woman. She wished Bobby gave lessons. Edward could use a few.

She thought Bobby considered her a friend. No, she was sure they were friends. He had called her when his dad died and she'd gone over to his place. She'd even offered to help clean out his dad's flat, but Bobby declined the offer. They traded gifts at Christmas. And birthday cards, although she was better at it than he was. Bobby usually ended up giving her belated cards.

Now there was Edward.

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"Since we met at your office, how many times have you had those anger episodes?"

He thought back. He couldn't remember. Probably several. Oh, there was the phone call with Gleason.

"Probably more than a few."

"Does any one in particular stand out?"

"One that I remember, besides this one."

"Tell me about it."

Oh, gee whiz. Here we go. Gleason. Phone sex! "Uh, I was on the phone and lost it."

Dr. Stephens looked at him. Boy, he's good, she thought. He's skilled at saying nothing whilst saying something.

"Detective, come on. Whom were you talking with? Where were you talking? What were you talking about? What did the person say that upset you? Come on." She looked at him with a knowing smile.

Bobby sat back again and took a deep breath.

"Ok. I was talking with a friend. At home. We were discussing, uh, we were talking about . . ." Bobby shifted in the chair, straightening. He broke eye contact. "We, we, oh gee whiz." He cleared his throat. "Ok. Uhm, she, she wouldn't say she loved me. And I guess I lost it." He said it all softly, sadly.

Excellent, thought Dr. Stephens, excellent. She waited, letting Bobby adjust to having said it aloud. Then, "Who is 'she'?"

Bobby could not get comfortable in the chair. It was getting hot. He felt anxious. "Uh, do I have to sit the whole time? I, I need to stand up. Is that ok?"

"Are you ok?" she asked, watching him carefully.

"Yes, I just can't get comfortable." He stood and rolled his head. He took a few breaths. "Oh, there. Better."

"How do you feel?" still watching him.

"I really needed to move, that's all."

"If you had to label how you felt, what would you name it?"

Bobby thought a minute. "Anxious. Antsy. I feel better standing up. What did you ask me before?"

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Gleason stepped out of the cab and walked into Harris Hall on Sheridan. It was a large old house converted to office and classroom spaces. She left her carpetbag against the wall in the entry hall and spoke to the receptionist, "Good morning, I'm Gleason Wintermantle. Dr. Manlowe is expecting me."

"Yes, Dr. Wintermantle, several people are expecting you. I'll let them know you are here," the young man answered. He spoke into a phone, "Dr. Manlowe, Dr. Wintermantle is here. Yes, I will." He hung up and looked at Gleason, "He'll be right with you. Can I get you -?"

"Dr. Wintermantle, good morning." Dr. Milton Manlowe came through a pair of pocket doors across the entry hall. He crossed to her with hand extended. "We are very glad you are here, dear." He took her hand and squeezed both her hand and his eyes; he appeared excited. "Come; let's go into the conference room."

The elderly man took her arm and led her back across the front hall. She stepped through the pocket doors and was surprised to see four individuals sitting around what looked like an antique dining room table. The two gentlemen stood as she entered. "Everyone, this is our Dr. Gleason Wintermantle."

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"You were describing the phone call. You said, 'she'. I asked who 'she' is."

"Oh, yeah. Gleason. I was talking with Gleason." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed to the bookcase, looking at the titles, his back to her.

"Who is Gleason?" Dr. Stephens noted the distancing. Bobby was physically removing himself from her, the source of his anxiety. He was turned away, further separating himself. This is not easy for him, she realized.

He stopped still. She watched his head tilt left. His shoulders sagged. He didn't say anything. The seconds passed. A minute.

"Detective?"

He took a deep breath and said softly, "I love her."

Dr. Stephens waited again, allowing that to settle. "Tell me about her."

Bobby turned to face the doctor. "She's wonderful." He returned to the chair. "She's smart, kind, beautiful. She's everything to me. I've never known anyone like her. I love her."

Based on what she had heard him say earlier, Dr. Stephens knew this next question was going to be tough. "Does she love you?"


	29. Chapter 29

159

Aligned Design

Ch 29

"So, how did I do?" he asked Dr. Stephens.

"You did fine, Detective," she replied with a smile. "What do you think about this?"

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "I, I just want to get better. I want things to be like they were." He said this looking at the floor.

"Well, that's what we are going to do, get you better. I'll see you Monday morning. Have a good weekend."

"You, too."

Bobby left and Dr. Stephens sat at her desk, making notes on the previous ninety minutes. She wrote fast as there was a lot to record. She wrote what she saw him do and heard him say. She wrote comments and questions. The last thing she wrote was, 'I want things to be like they were.' She added, 'what things? Abandonment – mother, Gleason?

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"Here you go Father Picard," Bobby said to the priest who ran St. Michael's Men's Shelter. "I've got another bag here, too."

"Bobby, thank you so much! This is wonderful. It's very generous."

"Well, I needed the space. I'm glad you can use these things."

"Come in, let me get you a cup of coffee. Do you want a donut? They're relatively fresh this morning," he said with a smile.

"No, no. Thank you. I need to get going."

"Alright, then. Thanks again, Bobby."

Bobby waved as he stepped to the SUV. He stopped, turned back and said, "Father, would you say a prayer for me?"

Father Picard looked at Bobby questioningly, "Of course. Of course I will."

Bobby nodded and got into his car.

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Eames was on her third cup of coffee and it was ten thirty-five. She was off tea; it took too much time.

"All right, thanks. No, there's no rush. Send it up when you finish it. Thanks." She hung up the phone and ran her hands through her hair. Jesus Christ, where did Navicky go? We need him.

She saw Bobby turn the corner from the lifts. He looked normal. I am taking no shit from him today, she said to herself. She was crampy, cranky and armed for bear.

"Morning," he said, hanging up his coat. "Anything new?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. The unmarked outside Navicky's place said he was a no-show. They're going to send up the report later."

"Yeah, well, I would have been surprised if he did show. He's either gone or dead," Bobby said, taking his seat, opening his portfolio and begin looking for something.

Eames stared at him. "Oh, you kind of figured, huh? What makes you think he's either dead or gone?" Her tone was clear.

Bobby stopped flipping pages and looked up. "Eames, he did not pull this heist by himself. He's probably long gone with his accomplice. Or, his accomplice got greedy and off-ed him. Those are the only logical explanations." He resumed flipping pages in his tablet.

"You know, I hate it when you go Spock on me. Do you want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." She took his cup and walked to the coffee room.

Deakins saw his best detective sitting at his desk and walked over. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm ok," Bobby responded.

"How did it go with Dr. Stephens?"

"Fine."

"Good, good." Silence hung between them. Bobby continued flipping pages in his portfolio, obviously looking for something. "Did you go to the range last night?"

Bobby stopped flipping pages. He didn't move. He didn't say anything. He was barely holding on. Deakins saw him take a deep breath. And another. He watched Bobby's fingers fist. Bobby tilted his head to the left and closed his eyes. Deakins waited and then saw it pass. He waited still.

"Yeah, I went to the range. I shot a dozen targets. My high was nine of twelve rounds, my low was six. I'm not going back until Monday evening. I'll see Dr. Stephens Monday morning. Anything else I can tell you?" Bobby finally looked up and his anger was visible.

"No, Bobby. It's good." He walked back to his office. At his desk, he thought to himself, this is going to be neither easy nor quick.

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"What is of particular interest to you, Dr. Wintermantle?" asked the chair of the classics department, a woman named Dr. Willow Cheswick.

"I have several interests. Among ancient studies, I especially enjoy investigating evidence of classical antiquity in medieval culture. I find fascinating the ways ancient studies predate medieval studies and the residual influence of the ancients on the medieval period."

"Tell us about your newest book," suggested Dr. Malcolm Conway, the youngest of the faculty at the table. He's older than I am, about Bobby's age, Gleason thought. He sounded like a southern Scot. Dr. Conway looked steadily at her. She felt his eyes. Gleason glanced at his hands, no ring. That didn't mean anything, few men from the UK wore a band.

"Aye, this book deals with rune alignments found in ancient languages. It investigates the origins of rudimentary expression and traces the elaboration."

"When is this book expected?" Dr. Manlowe inquired.

"First draft deadline is three months hence," Gleason replied.

"Do you think you'll make that deadline?" Dr. Conway asked.

"Oh, aye, I am three-quarters finished. I had a block of time off to write." She did not want to get into the reason for that block of time. The stalking, shooting and her recovery were in the past and she planned to keep them there.

The chairs of the linguistics, archeology, history, anthropology, and classics departments talked with Gleason as if in a conversation rather than an interview. They enjoyed each other for more than two hours.

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"Yes, it's P-a-l-m-e-r T-i-l-l-m-a-n. Will you run him to see if he's in your system? . . . We think he's an accomplice in an art heist here. . . . Once you get an address, can you send a car to pick him up? Hold him on suspicion of grand theft, insurance fraud, and murder. . . . Yes, thanks. Let us know what you find out. Thanks." Eames hung up and said to Bobby, "Well, that part is started. I hope that pans out and we get this case going again."

"Uh huh. Eames, did you see a piece of paper with phone numbers written on it?" he asked.

"Bobby, all I have is pieces of paper with phone numbers written on them. Throw me a bone here."

"Ah, never mind, found it. Good." Bobby withdrew the folded sheet of paper from behind others in one of the pocket folders in his portfolio. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed a number from the sheet, and put it to his ear.

Eames watched him listen to the number ring. When someone picked up, Bobby rose and strode away. Now what's he up to, she wondered.

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"Does anyone have anything else for Dr. Wintermantle? No?" Dr. Manlowe looked at each of his colleagues. Everyone smiled back silently. He turned to Gleason and said, "Well, Dr. Wintermantle, I think we are agreed that we'd like you to join our program here at Northwestern."

Gleason was surprised to get the offer right here, today at the table. "Oh, well, thank you. I'm surprised to learn of your decision so soon. Thank you." She was delighted.

"We're creating a position for you. We would like to offer you a tenure-track, full professorship shared among each of our departments. This means you are free to write your own syllabi. Of course, we will send you copies of the current syllabi. Your job will be to develop a course for each department that supplements existing courses. The challenge will be to ensure that your courses supplement and do not supplant. We would like you to start in the fall semester, which would be mid-August. Are you interested in that proposition?" Dr. Manlowe looked at Gleason fully expecting her to say yes.

Gleason looked at each individual. Suddenly she wasn't sure. She would be leaving New York behind. Leaving Bobby behind. But she'd already made those decisions. Now she wasn't so sure. Oh God. "May I have a day or two to think about this? May I let you know Monday morning?"

Malcolm Conway asked, "Will you be moving family if you join us?"

Gleason looked straight at him and thought, you are sly, aren't you? "I need to consider several things in making this decision. I'm sure all of you understand, eh?" Everyone nodded encouragingly.

"Very good, Dr. Wintermantle. I look forward to your response on Monday." Dr. Manlowe stood to signal the end of the meeting, the others rose as well. "Thank you for making the trip to talk with us. Where do you need to go from here, dear?" He leaned on the back of his chair.

"I would like to head to O'Hare and stand by for a flight home," she answered.

"Of course. Willow, would you ask Gerald to call Dr. Wintermantle a cab, please."

The head of the Classics department smiled at her boss and at Gleason and headed through the pocket doors.

Each member of the group took a turn speaking with Gleason. Everyone was encouraging, complimentary and kind. Dr. Conway was the last to speak with her.

"It would be a pleasure to work with you, Dr. Wintermantle."

"Gleason, please. I would enjoy working with all of you. This is a wonderful university. You have quite a cadre here."

"Yes, it is an unusual collection, but we compliment each other so well. The antiquaties program immerses students in interdisciplinary learning. Every content area is taught within a multi-departmentalized context. No other university has this structure." He looked at her, searching her face. She was just about to feel uncomfortable when he ended the moment with, "If you decide to join us, I would be honored to serve as a mentor of sorts. You know, show you around, procedures and the like." He smiled an incredible smile.

Gleason looked at this man. He was coming on to her. And she liked it. It was nice. He was tall, like Bobby. Not as big or broad or strong, but he was tall and lean. Sandy curls topped his head and hung a wee bit long in the back. His eyes were ice blue, like Christian's eyes.

She smiled back at him, "That is generous and kind of you, Dr. Conway. Thank you."

"Please, call me Malcolm. I hear the highlands in your voice. Where are you from?" He took a step closer.

"Off the north shore, a small island in the North Sea. What about you? I hear the south in your voice, right?"

"Aye, you have a good ear. I've been in the States a long time and delude myself in thinking I've lost any trace. Apparently not."

Dr. Manlowe watched his youngest faculty members – well one faculty member and one hopefully – chatting. They would make a nice couple, he thought. Dr. Manlowe was like an old woman in his matchmaking. He smiled and saw great things from Gleason. She's lovely and smart. I hope she decides to take the offer.

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"Hi, this is Detective Robert Goren with Major Case NYPD. Is Tom Derwin in? Thanks." Bobby waited with his cell to his ear. He was in the hall, near the lifts. He had called LaGuardia to search for Gleason's name on Metro-Air flights from O'Hare to LaGuardia for that evening.

"Hey, Tom, this is Robert Goren at Major Case. I spoke with you earlier this week about a Metro-Air flight to O'Hare. . . . Yeah, that's right. Tell you what, I need to know what flight that same person is returning on this evening. . . . Metro-Air from O'Hare. Tonight. Gleason Wintermantle. . . . Yes, I'll wait, thanks."

Bobby was excited. He'd meet her flight and surprise her. He'd take her back to his place. They would be together. Things would be- "Yes, what? Are you sure? Yes, tonight." Gleason's name didn't appear on any manifest for any of today's flights from O'Hare. She said she was coming home tonight.

"Uh, yeah, I'm here. . . . Oh, she might be a stand-by. Yes, that is a real possibility. How do I find out which flight she gets on? . . . Would you do that? You'd flag her name and then call me with the flight information? That would be terrific. . . . No, no, you don't need to have marshals standing by to escort her off. . . . Uh, no, she's not a threat. . . . Not a fugitive. . . . Not a suspect, either. . . . Yeah, something like that. Thanks for understanding. . . . I really appreciate this, Tom. Let me give you my cell number."

Bobby Goren had a new best friend.

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Gleason's cab arrived and Dr. Manlowe shook her hand and then gave her a quick embrace. "I do hope I get good news on Monday, dear." He squinted up his eyes in what she took as an expression of excitement. What a sweet man, she thought.

Malcolm Conway picked up Gleason's carpetbag and said, "Let me see you to the cab." He opened the front door and let her step through. A little thing, that meant everything. They walked together to the curb. Gleason was enchanted with this man.

Malcolm handed her bag to the cabbie and opened the back passenger door. He leaned into her and said, "I don't want to pressure you into anything, but, if you don't accept this position, I think you will be responsible for bringing on Milton's next coronary." He smiled that smile.

"Well, I don't know that I could live with that guilt. I'm sure I'll factor that possibility into my decision-making." She put out her hand and Malcolm took it, placing his left hand over her right. Neither said another word. Their looks said it all.

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Bobby and Eames worked steadily through the lunch hour and early afternoon. At one-twenty, Eames' phone rang, "Eames. . . . Yes. Are you serious? . . . How long ago? . . . Ok, thanks. . . . Yeah, do you have our fax number? . . . I appreciate it. Thanks again. Bye."

She hung up and looked at Bobby who was looking at her. "What? Tillman is gone?" he asked.

"Yes, he was in the St. Louis system. They're faxing his rap sheet as we speak. They sent a car out to his home and office. They say it looks like he left one or two days ago. He took clothes from his place and files and records from his office. Son of a gun, we are never going to solve this. That was our last chance."

"Eames, we have the murder weapon and we know where to search it. Either Navicky is out there using a credit card or he's lying dead, rotting somewhere. Besides, we'll notify all the insurance companies that sell that kind of policy and have them alert us of any new purchases. This case isn't over. It's barely begun. Good grief, don't give up."

"You are right. Again." Eames was struck by how normal Bobby seemed. He was relaxed, calm. This was the old Bobby. I wonder what happened, she thought.

"You always think the wor-" Bobby's cell phone rang and he grabbed it from the desk top. "Goren. . . . Yeah, got it. Hey, Tom, thanks a lot. I owe you." Bobby flipped his phone shut and wrote something quickly. He began to organize his desk stacking folders, shutting down his computer, he stopped and looked at his watch. He moved faster.

"Hey, I'm heading out. Tell Deakins I went to the range." He grabbed his coat and turned to leave.

"Bobby." He stopped and turned back. "_Are_ you going to the range?" He just looked at her and strode toward the lifts.

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	30. Chapter 30

163

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Ch 30

Bobby parked illegally at the curb outside ticketing. He put on his four-ways and set the OPB sign on the dash. He caught the attention of a traffic official, walked toward the woman, identified himself, displayed his shield and spoke briefly. She nodded and he turned and entered the terminal.

He checked the arrivals screen and saw that Gleason's flight was on time. He stood inside the ticketing lobby, outside security. He looked out the huge window at the comings and goings outside. The sky was clouding over. It would rain later. Gleason loves the rain, he thought. He thought about what he would tell her.

His mind ran with words, ideas. I'll be honest with her. My anger was, is, out of control. I know that. I'm taking steps to control it. I'm back in therapy – aggressive therapy. I will do whatever it takes for me to get back to where I was. I will do anything to keep her with me. I love her. So much.

She loves me. I know it. I feel it. So what if she can't or won't say it. It's only words. I was wrong to go off on her about it. I'll apologize. I will do anything to keep her with me. Anything. I cannot live without her.

I know she interviewed at Northwestern. It is the only explanation. She wants to move away. She wants to leave me. She can't leave. She can't. I cannot live without her. I will do anything to keep her with me.

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Gleason walked the length of the terminal lugging her carpetbag. Her mind was reeling. She would take a cab to her flat. She had made the decision to live there. She could not live with Bobby anymore. Not after that last phone call. She was afraid of him. She would not even tell him she was back. He knew she was coming home Friday night. Let him find out.

Bobby stood to the side, watching for her. She's on this flight. She's on this flight. There, there she is. Oh, thank God. His stomach jumped. His heart sang.

He saw her walking through the terminal within a crowd of others from the flight. She's tired, he thought. She looks so tired.

Gleason didn't see Bobby standing there. She wasn't expecting him. He moved to the edge of the group of others waiting to meet passengers. Gleason walked right past him. '

"Gleason!" Bobby called as she walked by. She continued walking several steps, finally stopped, but didn't turn around. "Honey," he strode to her side. She began walking again. He grabbed her arm.

"Let go of me!" she hissed, shaking him off.

"Gleason, honey, please," Bobby couldn't draw a breath. "Honey, please."

She kept walking. He jogged to her side. "Gleason stop, stop!" He pulled her to a stop. "Look at me! Gleason! Stop." She did and dropped the carpetbag. She looked at the floor. He pulled her to him and enveloped her in his arms. "Gleason, please. Honey. Oh God. Honey," he whispered into her hair. Finally, slowly, she raised her arms and hugged him under his coat. She relaxed into him. She was so tired. So tired. He was so big, strong, warm.

He took her head in his hands. He searched her face, every inch. He tilted her head and kissed her as tenderly as he ever had. She responded immediately, her tongue seeking its way through his lips. Bobby's left hand moved to her neck, his breathing quickened. He moaned softly. "Let's go home," he whispered deeply. He picked up her bag and they walked, his arm holding her close.

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He opened the passenger door and helped her up, shut the door, went around the back, lifted the hatch and set her bag inside. He watched for traffic and then got into the driver's side. Neither said anything. He removed the OPB sign, changed the four-ways to the left blinker, and watched the traffic in the side mirror, waiting to pull out. Suddenly, the traffic official was right there, beside the SUV, tweeting her whistle, holding up her hand, stopping traffic. She nodded and waved Bobby away from the curb. He waved thanks and pulled away.

They drove in silence. He kept glancing over at her. She rested with her eyes closed. Bobby left the airport property and once he was into the traffic stream, he reached for her hand. Gleason seemed to be asleep. She's so tired, he thought. This traveling has wiped her out. He glanced at her again. She was asleep.

Thank God, she's here, he said to himself. He felt so relieved. He was cautiously happy. Dr. Stephens told him to think about how he was feeling in different situations. I'll tell her I feel relieved. She's here. She's with me. Thank God.

Bobby drove with his left hand on the wheel; his right hand wrapped around Gleason's left. He would hold on to her for as long as he lived.

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"Honey? Sweetheart? We're home. Gleason, baby, wake up." Bobby leaned over the console and brushed a stray whiff of hair from her face as he gently woke her.

"Hmmmm . . . what?" Gleason sighed deeply, her eyes opened and she saw him looking at her. She smiled. "I must be really tired."

"You've had a long day. Come on, let's go up stairs." He got out, went around back, removed her carpetbag and then opened her door. Bobby took her hand and helped her from the SUV. He shut the door, clicked it locked and led her up the block to his flat. Once inside the lobby, Gleason walked slowly up the stairs, nearly pulling herself up the banister.

Inside the flat, Bobby set down the carpetbag and took her wrap, hanging it in the hall closet, and then he hung his coat. She set her purse on his chair and didn't know what to do next.

"Bobby . . ." she began.

"Honey, let's go take a nap," he interrupted. He didn't want her to say anything. He was afraid of what she might say. "You're so tired. Come on." He took her arm, picked up the carpetbag and took a step toward the bedroom.

"Bobby, wait." Gleason pulled her arm free.

He stopped and turned. He heart stopped, his stomach fell, he couldn't breathe. He looked at her. This is it, he thought. She's going to tell me she's leaving. Oh.

Gleason moved to the sofa and sat. She put her hands over her face, and then set them on her lap.

"Bobby . . . we need to talk," she said, not looking at him.

The words you ever want to hear from someone you love.

He could say or do nothing. He stood there. Slowly, he set down her bag. It was hard to draw a breath. His chest was wood. Stone. Marble. Cement.

"I've been offered a position at Northwestern. I start in August." She said this without looking at him. She was shaking.

Bobby stared at her. His heart pounded in his chest, in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He found himself sitting on the edge of his chair, her leather bag behind him, his elbows on his knees, fingers laced. His eyes moved away from her, looking at nothing, seeing nothing.

Gleason looked at him. "Say something," she said.

He couldn't find his voice; there wasn't enough air to speak. Finally, he looked over to her and whispered, "Why?"

"My program has been terminated at Brookbine. I've been let go. I'll see this group of students to the end of their program and then I'm done the end of July."

This information swirled around Bobby's mind. It's the job. She's leaving because of the job. Suddenly there was light, hope. Air came easier.

"You're not leaving me? You have to take a new job? Is, is that what you're saying? It's the job? You're not leaving me?" He couldn't hide the desperation in his voice.

"I need to work, Bobby. This is a great opportunity. Northwestern is a wonderful university. I'm lucky to be offered the chance to teach there."

"You're not leaving me, though? You still love me? Do you love me, Gleason?" He couldn't keep the tears from filling his eyes.

Gleason looked at him. Oh, God she did love him. More than she ever thought she could love anyone. He is the best thing ever to happen to me, she realized. He is kind, good, strong, smart, brave, and he loves me. He loves me like I've never been loved. Yes, yes, I love him.

She stood and crossed the room to him. He watched her move and sat upright as she approached. She stopped in front of him; he reached and held her around her waist. She pulled his head to her stomach. He sobbed quietly against her. She ran her hands through his hair, on his neck, over his shoulders. "Aye, Bobby, I love you."

Gleason held Bobby's head against her stomach and stroked his hair, she stroked his neck, stroked his shoulders. He cried quietly. "Shh, love, don't cry. Shh," she purred to him. She held him like a little boy, like a son.

Finally, he quieted and moved back, not letting go of her, but looking up at her. "Say it again," he told her.

"What?"

"Say it again. Say you love me," his grip on her tightened a bit.

"Bobby . . . stand up, love. Stand up." She pulled him to his feet. He stood and held her arms. Gleason took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes. She saw love, fear, want, need, love, fear. "Bobby, I love you."

He hitched a sob and said, "Say it again."

"I love you," she said with a smile. As he had done so many times to her, she wiped his tears with her thumbs and then pulled his head to hers. She kissed him softly. He held her and she rocked him.

"Bobby, love. . ."

"Hmmm?"

"I have to pee."

He backed away and looked at her. He released her arms and stepped away, smiling. She returned the smile and turned for the bathroom. Bobby walked into the kitchen, unbuttoned the cuffs on his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He threw water on his face, and then wiped it with a paper towel. He leaned on the edge of the sink. It will be ok. She loves me. She said so. She loves me.


	31. Chapter 31

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Chapter 31

Gleason had taken off her suit jacket and laid it on his bed. She returned to the kitchen and saw him leaning on the edge of the sink; she saw the flowers and the tablecloth and she smiled. He did this for me, she thought. Her heart swelled. He loves me. She went to him and wrapped her arms around him from the back. He stood up and ran his hands on her arms. She leaned against his strong, broad back. "The table and flowers are lovely," she said.

Bobby turned, held her around the waist and said, "I bought them for you. I want you to be happy, Gleason. I want to make you happy. I want you to stay with me. I want you to live here, with me. I want things to be like before. Honey, I love you so much."

Gleason looked up at him. "Bobby, I'm moving to Chicago in a few months. Please understand."

It was hard to breathe again. His eyes poured into hers, into her soul. "But you love me, right. You'll still love me in Chicago, won't you?" He sounded frightened.

"Love, we need to discuss this. Come on; sit with me. Let's talk about this." She took his hand from her waist and turned toward the living room.

"Wait," he didn't budge. Gleason turned and looked at him. "Tell me you love me."

"Dear Heart, I love you. I love you. I do, Bobby. Come with me." She said it softly. What have I done to this man, she wondered. Gleason turned and Bobby followed her to the living room.

Bobby sat on the sofa. He kicked off his shoes, sat and bent his left knee, setting his left foot on the seat, his heel against his bottom. "Come here, lie down. Let me hold you." He reached up for her. Gleason sat beside him, turned and laid her head in his lap, his left forearm under her head. "There, is this ok? Are you comfortable?" he asked her.

"This is nice," she replied, snuggling against him with a smile. Her right arm reached up and rested against his chest. She slid it slowly back and forth. Bobby smoothed wisps of hair away from her face. Then his hand rested below her collarbone.

"Will you still love me in Chicago?" he asked softly.

"Of course I will," she answered looking up into his face.

A long silence filled the time. Finally, Bobby said, "Tell me what happened at Brookbine."

Gleason told him everything. She told him what Dean Boyer had told her. She told him about meeting Dr. Manlowe last year at the conference. She told him about the interview. She told him about her position, what a big deal it was to be hired as a full professor, tenured, no less.

Bobby listened, asking a question here and there, making an occasional comment. His hand stroked her cheek, her jaw, her neck. He watched her excitement. He was so proud of her. We can make this work, he told himself. She loves me. I have to make this work. I cannot lose her.

"I have a lot to do in the next few months," she told him.

"I know, sweetheart. We'll get it all done. I'll help you. What are you going to do about your flat?"

"If I'm going to live with you, I won't need it." She looked up at him. "I can live here, can't I?"

He leaned down and kissed her. "Forever," he replied. His hand had moved to her stomach. His fingers absently strayed to her breast. He touched gently, without knowing. "How often will you be able to come home once you move?"

Gleason thought a moment. "I'll see if I can arrange to have Friday classes meet in the morning and Monday classes meet in the evening, the middle of the week won't matter. That way, I can fly home Friday evening and go back Monday morning. I can come home every weekend. And, you can come to Chicago, too. That will work, won't it?"

"Commuting each week will get expensive," Bobby reasoned. "But I'll pay anything to keep you." He reached down and kissed her again. His fingers became more deliberate in their stroking. He noticed how round her breast felt.

"What shall we do with the furniture in the campus flat?" she asked. "I suppose I could leave it."

"Or, we can donate it to St. Michael's Men's Shelter. Father Picard is always glad to accept any kind of donations. What about that?"

"That is wonderful, Bobby." She liked how he was touching her left breast. Nice, she thought.

"I'll give notice of vacating tomorrow morning. Maybe we can go get my car and bring it this way? I need to get my clothes out of the boot. I put them there when, when I went to Chicago." She looked up at him.

"We can do that," he answered.

"Bobby, I am sorry I left like that. It was wrong of me."

He looked down at her and his heart and soul filled with love, sadness, remorse. "Gleason, I am sorry for making you leave. I'm . . . honey, I'm sorry for exploding on the phone the other night." His hand stopped touching her breast. He shifted slightly; it was hard, telling her this. "Gleason, I'm back in therapy. I see Dr. Stephens Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings for ninety-minutes. Something is wrong with me. I, I have no control over my temper. Deakins took my weapon. I'm not allowed to go to scenes. I'm not allowed to interview anymore. I want to get better. I want things to be like they were." He said it all in a rush and was afraid he was going to cry.

Gleason turned in his lap, shifted away a bit and looked up at him. "Bobby, what is wrong? Why is your temper out of control? What about your anger management course?" She reached up her right hand and held it against his left cheek. He leaned into it and closed his eyes. Bobby withdrew his arm from under where her head had lain. He cupped his hand over hers, tuned it and softly kissed her palm.

Bobby replaced her palm against his cheek again and said, "That didn't work, honey. It was a waste of time. I flew off at a witness, I've screamed at Eames I don't know how many times. She's afraid of me. I smashed a cup at work. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Gleason looked at him. "Bobby, what can I do to help you? Tell me. I want to help you."

He looked at her. He knew exactly what she could do to make it all better. But he would not ask her to do that. He loved her too much to ask her not to take the job. This is our new life, he thought, I need to make this new reality work. He stroked her head with his left hand, "Just love me, Gleason. Love me forever." He leaned down and kissed her.

Gleason returned his kiss, her left hand against his neck. Bobby's hand returned to her breast. He rubbed his thumb over her nipple and it stood right up. He flicked it. He pulled her top and undershirt out from her waistband and slid up his hand, grasping her round, full breast. Gleason shifted and reached for Bobby's buckle. He stopped her hand, "Do you want to do this," he asked deeply.

"Let me," she answered, breathing quickly.

Bobby undid his buckle in a practiced move and kissed her, his tongue slipping through her lips, into her mouth. She pulled down his zipper.

Bobby shifted and lifted out his flaccid penis. It was long and thick. Gleason looked at it, she took it in her right hand and her mouth met its round head. She licked it and Bobby jerked. Gleason slid just the head into her mouth and heard Bobby suck air. Her tongue played with the head and she felt him begin to swell and stiffen in her hand.

Her tongue flicked its way along the underside of his length; suddenly, he was nearly erect. She nibbled the far end, where it met the rest and Bobby moaned softly. His hand left her breast and moved to her waist, undoing the button and lowering her zipper. He slid his hand inside her panties and his middle finger found her clit. Gleason lifted her left knee to open herself to him and he slid his finger inside.

Gleason jolted and a quiet moan escaped. She was already wet for him. Bobby's finger played, rubbing her lips, darting in and out, tweaking and rubbing her clit. She set her mouth on the head of his penis and took in what she could of his length. He was enormous and she could only take part. She grasped the rest of him with her left hand and stroked.

She moved against his hand. She rubbed her tongue against the ridge on the underside of his cock. Bobby hissed and shifted his legs open wider. His left hand was in her hair, wanting to move her head. Gleason sucked on him as she would a Popsicle. Bobby moaned. His finger on her clit was pushing her closer to the edge. She moaned around his penis and he groaned through an open mouth.

Bobby's head rested against the back of the sofa. His eyes closed, his mouth opened. Ever so slightly, his hips began to move back and forth as though he were pushing in and out of her. His finger became two and he slid in and out, going faster, deeper. He held her head with one hand.

Gleason moaned around him again and Bobby groaned aloud. His sounds were fueling her. Her sounds were in her throat. Her tongue rubbed and flicked his length. She sucked him. She flicked her tongue on his tip, tasting a salty sample. She kept her mouth juicy and moved so his penis slid in and out it as it would her other opening. She stroked the rest of him faster, tighter.

Bobby began making short, guttural sounds. Gleason knew he was close. She was close. I want him in me, she thought, I want him to come in me. As if reading her mind, Bobby said, "Come here, sit on me. I want to come inside you."

He pulled his penis from her mouth and rubbed it up and down several times. She watched him do that and nearly came right there. It was a most erotic thing she'd ever seen. In a flash, she was out of her pants. She stripped off her top and undershirt. Her breasts swung free. Bobby let go of himself, boosted up and slid his pants down, off his knees and they slid to his ankles. He undid two buttons, pulled of his dress shirt as if it were a tee shirt, and then took off his undershirt. "Come, here, get on me."

He reached for her and she straddled him. She leaned in and kissed him. Bobby took himself again and began to rub. She sat back and watched him do this. "I like seeing that," she whispered. He kissed her hard, tasted himself, and moaned. "Let me in. Get on. I want to come. I want to come inside."

Gleason rose on her knees and Bobby placed himself against her slit. He still held himself, rubbing. His short sounds came fast. Gleason pleaded, "Go in me. I want you in me." She tried to push down onto his staff, but he held her up with an arm around her waist.

"Wait for it. I want you to come hard. Like never before." He spoke in a whisper, a deep, sensuous whisper.

"Bobby, I want to come." Her voice had a desperate edge. Slowly, he rubbed her with his penis. She hissed and tried to push down.

"Feel good?" he asked.

"Bobby, let me. On you." She was going to come with or without him.

At last, he slid her down and he pushed up. They both groaned aloud. Immediately Gleason began to pull and push on him. Her hands were on his shoulders and she pulled and pushed, up and down, tightening around him, squeezing him inside her. Bobby pumped up and pulled her down. He was like a piston.

Suddenly, he slid forward a bit, leaning back. He leaned Gleason back, holding her with both arms. He pushed up hard into her and didn't pull out. He felt his penis jerk inside of her shooting hot cum against the cap of her inside. He made hard, short, jerking sounds. Gleason arched in his arms and came pressing hard against his lap. She clutched his neck and growled out her orgasm.


	32. Chapter 32

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Ch 32

"Oh, god, oh," Gleason panted aloud. "Oh, Bobby." She was going to come again! "I, I, ungh, ungh, uuunnnggghhh!" She bent forward and stiffened. Bobby pushed up, best he could. He watched her, hands on her hips. She kept coming. Hard. Finally, she quieted to a shudder and panted, not looking at him.

"Good?" he asked her.

Her breathing finally slowed. She swallowed and whispered, "I'm going to come again, if you don't slide out of me." She could feel him in her, he was softening, but she felt him, all the way up. And it was good. "Bobby, pull out. Please." But, she made no move to remove him. She really liked the feel of him inside. She knew she was starting up again. "Oh, Baw--," she began to move in his lap. "Ungh, ohh."

Bobby watched her begin again. He was fascinated. He willed himself to harden again. It didn't take much. Watching her, hearing her, that did it for him. His left hand lifted her right breast and his mouth met her nipple. He sucked like a newborn.

Gleason made low, deep grunting sounds as she slowly pulled herself on and off his now hard penis. Bobby's head dropped back and he made deep sounds. His hips opposed her moves; they pulled apart and pushed together in synch, slowly, so slowly.

Bobby's grasp tightened on her hips. His grunts came shorter, quicker. "Hon, ugh, ugh, oh god, Glea-, I'm gonna come, I'm gon-, uuunnnggghhh!" His head snapped forward, he bent forward, he ground her down into his lap and he jerked upward, jetting his cum into her once again.

Gleason's orgasm broke with his. She gasped and saw only white. She felt him jerk inside of her. She felt him push against the top of her inside. It was incredible. She had never come like that before. She had never come three times before.

Slowly they settled. Bobby's hands moved from her hips to her back and he pulled her toward him. Gleason leaned against his chest. He held her, rubbing her back, not feeling her scars.

"Are you all right?" he said softly into her hair.

"Uh huh," was all she could manage.

They sat this way, hearts beating into each other's chest; breathing nearly in unison.

Bobby was completely soft now and he said, "Honey, I need to move. Sit up. Scoot back."

Gleason moved back and slid off him, standing up. "I need to clean up," she said shyly. She walked to the bathroom naked.

Bobby sat, not certain he could stand. Jesus, he thought, she's never been like that. It's been a long time, but . . . my God. He reached down and grabbed his trousers. He stood and pulled up his boxers and pants, zipping up, not belting. He grabbed his shirts and her tops and pants and walked back to the bedroom. He heard the toilet flush and the shower come on.

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Eames decided to go to the range. She had called Sledge and told him where she was.

"Do you want to get some dinner afterward?" he asked her.

"Ok, that would be nice. But, then we each go home. Alone. Ok?" she replied.

"That's fine, Hon. Where do you want to meet?" They decided to get fish at a place not far from the range. They would meet in two hours.

Eames did well at the range. She always did. Out of twelve targets, her high score was twelve of twelve rounds – every time but once. Her low was eleven of twelve. Yes! She was still the best shot in Major Case.

Eames was glad it was the weekend; it was hers and Bobby's weekend off. Sledge and Bishop were on. She was glad about that, too. She could have a nice, quiet weekend in without feeling guilty for asking him to stay at his place.

As she cleaned the weapon, she thought about how she felt about Edward. She knew he loved her. He had not said it yet, but she knew. She wasn't sure how she felt about him. He was good to her. He could be fun. And, he was amazing in bed. He let her do anything under the sheets; he was . . . let's say 'open-minded,' she smiled at that. She didn't think she loved him. Not yet. It was possible. Eventually. Probably.

Alex's mind shifted to Bobby. Ah, she felt completely different thinking about him. She was absolutely certain that he had no clue about how she felt about him. She had never let on. She realized long ago that she stood no chance. She had never gotten any inkling of interest from him.

Early in their partnership, she actually thought he might be gay or asexual. He had never mentioned a woman, had never shown any interest in any woman, whatsoever. Until that one case with that wacko nurse. He was different around her. Jeeze, he almost gave her his shield pin. He was really taken with her until they figured out she was a murderer.

After that, Bobby went to dinner with one or two women from work. But nothing regular. Alex didn't even know what he did on his own time. She knew he had a treadmill. She knew he went to the gym. And the library. He went to see his mother at Carmel Ridge each week. He needs to go to the range more often, she thought.

Alex checked her watch. She had to get moving. Edward was probably already waiting for her. He was always early.

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"Holy cow, do you smell that?" the young kid nearly gagged as he helped his uncle unload crap from his uncle's beat-up old van.

"I've smelled worse," the man said. "Here roll this tire way in the back then come get the rest of 'em."

The van sat at the far end of the back row of storage units. The uncle had noticed the blue Honda with its lid up as they passed it on the way to his unit. He had paid it no mind, however.

"Sure smells like something died. Whew!" The boy pushed the next tire into the unit.

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Bobby changed into jeans and a tee shirt and then knocked on the bathroom door, "Honey, are you hungry? Gleason?" He opened the door a wee bit and saw she was still in the shower. He crossed to it and pulled back the curtain a little. He started her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Are you hungry? I have stuff to make us a good dinner. Is spaghetti ok?"

Gleason wiped the water from her face and smiled. "Why don't you come in here with me? We could have dinner in here." She blushed as she said this with a smile.

He looked at her. "Gleason, are you . . . still – horny?"

"No." She looked at him shyly and then said, "Yes," and she blushed again, looking down, smiling . "Come in with me." She reached out her hand.

What is going on with her, Bobby thought. Jesus. This is a good thing, I guess. I cannot go again. Not for a while. "Honey, I can't, not for a while. Do you want me to make dinner or do you want to go out?"

"Let's eat here. I'll be out in a minute."

Gleason was surprised at herself. She had never been like this, wanting sex like this. She and Bobby had made love frequently that first weekend – Saturday night, several times; Sunday morning, afternoon, night, several times, even Monday morning. Then, then the shooting. Gleason nearly died and Bobby destroyed his hand in a rage. She was in hospital for more than two weeks. They recuperated here, at Bobby's flat. They hadn't made love in nearly eight weeks. Except for Wednesday night on the phone. Did that even count?

Gleason wrapped a towel around herself and walked into the bedroom. Bobby had neatly laid her suit pants and shell on the bed. She went to his closet to get a hanger and was surprised to see nearly half of the bar empty.

"I made room for you," he said from the doorway. She looked at him and smiled.

"Did you save me any hangers?"

"I did." Bobby crossed in front of the dresser, set her carpetbag on the bed, stood beside her and reached up to the shelf above the bar. He brought down a collection of pants hangers, suit hangers, and regular hangers. "You live here, Honey. Chicago will be where you work, this is where you live." He bent and kissed her gently. "Put something on, dinner is almost ready."

"Bobby, I have no clean clothes. My other things are in my car."

"Well, wear something of mine." He pulled open a dresser drawer and removed his green plaid cotton pants and his green tee shirt. "Here, try these." Gleason dropped the towel, slipped on the shirt and stepped into the pants. They were too big around the waist.

"Let me fix that." Bobby stepped to her, pulled the elastic waistband, and tied a small knot in the material. "There, how's that?"

Gleason looked down at it and said, "Great, till I need to go to the bathroom again."

He smiled and said, "I'll fix it every time. Come on, let's eat."

He took her hand and led her to the kitchen.

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Jenese and Tillman walked around the Cheshire Gallery on Westover Avenue. It was a new place, hosting a ceramic exhibition. Pieces from around the world were on display. Large, abstract shapes; lovely, sweeping forms; tall, grotesque structures, each one beautiful in its own way.

"These things look really fragile," Tillman said, taking Jenese's arm.

"That is just what I was thinking. We may need to have to rethink this. This stuff will crumble before we can resell it." Jenese thought a minute. "You know, we're going to rethink this whole heist."

They walked, arm in arm.

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"Look at this! Bobby, this is wonderful!" Gleason reached her arm around his waist and hugged. The table was set with a glass of wine for her, a glass of soda for him, a plate of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella for her, just tomatoes for him, and a basket of sliced Italian bread. A pot of water sat boiling on the stove and another sat simmering.

Bobby smiled and hugged her to him. "Let's eat."

He pulled out her chair and she sat, then he did. He saw her smile, looking at everything. She was happy and his heart sang. She smiled at him and reached for his hand. "Thank you, love. Thank you." Gleason reached for the bread, "I love bread! This is nice and soft." She reached for the butter and slathered it on.

Bobby took a sip of his soda and Gleason noticed. "Do you not want a beer, Bobby?" she asked around the bread in her mouth.

"No, no I'm not going to drink for a while." He couldn't look at her. She caught the change.

"Why? Did something happen?" She watched him. He was uncomfortable; he shifted in his seat. "Love, what happened?" Gleason set down her slice of bread. "Tell me."

Bobby was sorry he had said anything. He should have just said, "No." His lips pursed, his head swung to the left. He exhaled through his nose. "I, I got drunk Monday night, really drunk." His hands started slicing the air. "Sledge came to get me. He brought me home and got me sober. I don't remember anything. I don't remember calling him. Why would I even call him? We were never good friends." He finally looked at her. He took her hand. "So, I'm not going to drink until I get my head on straight." He gave her hand a squeeze and then reached for a slice of bread.

Gleason thought about this. He got drunk because I left. I've hurt him so much, so many times. She promised herself she would not hurt him again. She took another bite of bread. There was so much she wanted to ask him – like, why had Deakins taken his weapon? What happened to the wall in the bedroom? But she did not.

"Have I told you that I love you?" she said to him as he rose to attend to the stove.

He stopped, turned and smiled at her, "Actually, you have. Several times. And I thank you." He turned completely and kissed her lightly. She reached for another piece of bread.

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Alex and Edward had enjoyed their dinner. Edward laid his credit card on the table. He had noticed her looking at him, a lot.

"So, why are you looking at me?" he asked.

"What do you mean? I'm not looking at you," she replied.

"Yes you are. I've been watching you, you are looking at me. What are you thinking?" The server took his card.

Alex looked at the table. It was funny he should catch her sneaking looks at him. Throughout the meal, she _had_ been looking at him, thinking intently about him, deciding how she really felt about him. Could I love him, she wondered. Could I _be_ in love with him? She wasn't sure.

"All right, I'll tell you. I was imagining what this evening is going to be like. Just me, in that nice flat, by myself. Doing whatever I want. Without the TV on. Without the toilet seat up. That's what I was thinking." She smiled sweetly.

He smiled back at her. "No you weren't," he said.

Her eyebrows shot up, "Oh?" Her voice matched her eyebrows.

The server returned and Edward nodded to her, taking the slip and his card, "Nope. You were . . . " He figured the tip. "You were deciding how you feel about me. You were wondering if you are in love with me." He signed the slip and finally looked up at her. "Right?"

She was stunned. She didn't know what to say. She was flustered and she was adorable when she was flustered. It didn't happen often.

"Well?" he asked. "Am I right?"

"Edward, I. . ." she was speechless. And embarrassed. Alex actually reddened.

He smiled at her as he returned his card to his wallet. He loved her like he never thought possible. His carousing days were over. "Don't worry. I know how you feel. You don't know yet, but I do. You'll figure it out." He slid forward on the seat and returned his wallet to his back pocket. "Are you ready?"

Eames still couldn't speak. And then, "All right," she said with a sly tone, "you are sweet talking me because you think I'll just melt and let you come back to my place. Well, you are so wrong, buster."

Edward stood and reached for her chair, he held it as she stood up. She stood and he said, "No, really, Alex. I'm serious. I'm staying at my place for a few days so you can think about this, about us. I want you to think about us. I already know how I feel. And, I want to know how you feel. I think I know how you feel. But you need to come to it yourself." They looked at each other for another second and he reached behind her and led her to the front.


	33. Chapter 33

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Ch 33

Bobby tipped the large pot of steaming water and the pasta poured into the colander. He rinsed it under the tap, shook the colander and set it to drain. Gleason watched him cook. This felt so right. She needed to make this work.

"Come and get your spaghetti," he said, "I don't know how much you want."

Gleason rose and crossed to his side. She watched him use a pasta dipper to scoop strands from the colander onto her plate. "Do you want more?" he asked.

"Heavens, no! That is more than enough. You take that one and I'll get my own." She took a plate and lifted a third of what Bobby had piled on his plate.

He took the lid from the simmering pot and a cloud of spicy steam drifted upward. He inhaled and said, "How's that? Smell good?"

Gleason did not respond and he turned to look at her. Her left hand clamped over her mouth and she gagged once. She set the plate of pasta on the table and dashed down the hall.

"Gleason --?" he said. What just happened? "Honey!" Bobby set down the lid and hurried after her. "Gleason, are you all right? Honey?" He heard her retching in the bathroom. He opened the door and stepped beside her. He wrapped his left arm around her and pulled back her hair with his right. "Sweetheart, what happened? Are you ok?" He spoke softly. Gleason leaned against him and nodded. "Let me brush my teeth," she whispered. She flushed the toilet and lowered the seat and lid.

Bobby stood in the doorway watching her. Gleason held back her hair with her right hand behind her head and brushed with her left. She finished, he stood aside, and followed her down the hall. She sat on the sofa and he sat beside her, wrapping his right arm around her.

"What happened?" he asked.

She did not respond right away. Then, softly, "I don't know. I was hungry. The bread was so good. The tomatoes and mozzarella, too. Then, then the smell of the tomato sauce just hit me wrong."

Bobby thought about this. A germ of an idea began to take shape in the wee, back corner of his mind. Oh, oh no. He pushed it away to consider later. "Are you ok now?" he asked her softly.

"Yes, I'm fine." She leaned away and looked up at him, "It wasn't your cooking, Bobby, I, I just got sick."

He hugged her close and said, "I know, sweetheart, I know." They sat for another minute and he said, "Do you want to eat anything?"

"I am hungry. I'd like more bread. And tomatoes and cheese. Do we have more tomatoes and cheese?"

He smiled and said, "Stay here while I get you something. I don't want you to smell the sauce again." He returned to the kitchen and then brought her the breadbasket, butter tub, knife and plate. She dug in. His mind raced while he sliced the other tomato and more mozzarella. He didn't want to think about it. No, couldn't be. "Here you are, eat this," he said, setting down a plate.

"You go ahead and eat some spaghetti, Bobby. I'll just stay here."

"No, I've put it away. We have other things." He sat beside her, ate his tomatoes, and watched her eat a third slice of bread.

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It was nearly six-forty-five and Deakins was still in his office, one thing after another, it seemed. He spoke to Ms Peng Wah, northeast regional manager of Westmark Equities, the insurance company holding the policies on the lost pieces of art.

"Yes, yes I understand. . . . It appears they've hit a dead end. . . . I'm sorry, but not every case is resolved as expeditiously as we might hope. . . . I understand that this means a substantial payout if we cannot prove fraud. Let's not give up yet. . . . Yes, I will let you know. . . . Yes, goodnight." He hung up and said to himself, this has been the longest week.

He lifted the phone again and hit the button for home. He wanted to tell Angie that he would probably be late and to go on to the Sutton's without him, he would meet her there. The line was busy – Julie was online again. We have to get some kind of high-speed connection, he thought.

This case would be finished if Goren were himself, he thought. He and Eames are off this weekend. Good. Maybe he'll rest. Deakins seriously considered handing the art heist case to Sledge and Bishop. Bobby was so distracted, unreliable right now. He couldn't interview, couldn't go to a scene. It was as if the whole case jammed up because the whole Bobby wasn't available to work it.

Deakins thought about putting Bobby back on interviews and maybe scenes sometime next week. Let's see how he does Monday and Tuesday, he thought. He dialed Angie's cell.

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"I'm telling you, we need to get back to canvases, Dom. This ceramic stuff is too fragile." Jenese and Tillman were having dinner at a nice little place around the corner from the gallery. Alphonse, a sweet young man attending the opening, had suggested it. Jenese was intrigued with the way Tilley and Alphonse had gotten on. He did not mind a bit. The more the merrier, he always said. Hope this guy knows what he's doing, though. Jenese was still ticked off about the kid at the truck stop, all that going and going and no coming. Jesus.

"Ok, so who do we snatch instead? Anyone looking worthwhile? You're the broker, who's hot? Besides me?" he said with a sly smile.

"Well, Alphonse was looking pretty hot, don't you think?" Tilley smiled back.

"Actually, he was. Did you get his number?" Tilley nodded, pulled out a business card from an inside pocket and slid it across the table. Jenese took it and flipped open his cell.

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Eames was alone in her flat. It was quiet. Peaceful. She had taken a shower and gotten into bed. She wanted to finish this book. The first one had been so good; she had finished it in a week. This was the sequel, but it just didn't have the same zing the first one did. It seemed as though the author had lost his rhythm, gotten bogged down. Maybe it was Eames who had gotten bogged down.

She put down the book and thought about Edward. Was it her imagination, or did Edward seem different these past weeks? He seemed to be less of an idiot. He seemed steadier, less goofy. He seemed more . . . what, serious, mature? Something is different about him, she thought.

On the other hand, she thought, maybe she was finally seeing what had been there all along. Maybe he _was_ serious and mature. Maybe she just never saw it because she had had this silly schoolgirl crush on her partner all this time.

She thought about Bobby. He was so screwed up right now, although, today he had not been too bad. He actually seemed like his old self. I wonder what happened between him and Gleason. Boy, I bet whatever it was is what set off this temper thing with him. She wondered if it was over between Bobby and Gleason. What would that mean?

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Bobby and Gleason finished the tomatoes, mozzarella, peaches, and Gleason finished the bread. "You're still hungry, aren't you?" She asked him. "You didn't eat much. I ate most of the bread. Why don't you get a plate of spaghetti? Love, get a plate. I won't be bothered, I promise."

Bobby _was_ hungry. That spaghetti would be good. "Why don't you put your things away in the bedroom, and I'll get a quick plate?" He looked at her lovingly.

"Excellent," Gleason stood and picked up their plates, cutlery, and napkins – new cloth ones that matched the tablecloth, she had mentioned. Bobby picked up the butter tub, empty breadbasket, and their glasses. He followed her into the kitchen.

"Just set those on the counter," he said. "I want to show you something in the bedroom," he said with a smile, taking her hand.

"See, this whole chest is yours." He opened then shut each drawer, showing her its emptiness. He turned and smiled at her. "Is this ok?"

She didn't say anything at first. She was touched. It was such a simple thing, but it spoke volumes. He had planned for her to return, he had made space for her to stay. "Bobby, thank you." She hugged him around the waist and he bent and gave her a kiss. "Now, go eat some good spaghetti."

Bobby headed to the kitchen while she emptied her carpetbag. Nearly everything went into the dirty clothesbasket in the closet. She set her toiletries in the bathroom, where they had been before Chicago.

The book of poetry sat at the bottom. She held it, thinking how she just went ahead and bought it, even when she was sure she was not coming back to him. This slim, signed, first-edition copy of erotic German poetry by his favorite author was a taproot that proved they were meant to be together. It anchored all that they had between them. She set it in the bottom drawer of the chest. She would give it to him in the morning. The empty carpetbag went in the closet, opposite the basket.

Gleason spotted the necklace Bobby had given her, right where she had left it, on the dresser top. It hadn't been touched. It looked like someone had dusted around it. Bobby. He didn't want to touch it. Oh, how cruel she had been to leave him like that. Sneaking away, making him worry. He loves me.

The gold and onyx chain represented the same thing as the book. In her heart, she knew they would never exchange another gift. Nothing would ever match these two items. She didn't want anything else. She picked up the chain and returned it to her neck. She would never take it off again.

She looked around. Everything was so clean. She noticed the vacuum lines in the carpet. The tops of the dresser, chest, even his night table had been dusted. The bed had fresh sheets. Estella came on Saturday; Bobby did all of this. Gleason had noticed how tidy the living room was, it didn't show any of the 'day-before-Estella-comes' clutter or muss. The bathroom, too, she'd noticed. Bobby had cleaned for her.

She sat on her side of the bed, facing the wall. She slid her hands on the coverlet, this is where we first made love, she thought. He is a wonderful lover. This afternoon, on the sofa, oh my! She had never been like that. She smiled, remembering. She liked what had happened. Watching Bobby's hand on himself, oh, that was nice. Very sexy. They would do more, tonight. She loved him and his body and what he did with it.

Gleason looked up at the mar in the plaster. He threw something, she thought. He was angry and he threw something against the wall. I made him angry. I am the cause of his temper. I need to make him well. I'll do whatever I need to do to make him well. I love him.

As if beckoned, Bobby entered the bedroom. "Everything ok?" he asked. Gleason stood and went to him and wrapped her arms around him.

"Aye, love, aye. It's all good." They held each other.

"Do you want to do anything? Go out? Take a nap? Go to bed?" he asked.

Gleason pulled away and looked up at him with a shy smile, "What would we do if we went to bed?"

He looked at her and wondered, why is she so horny? Some women get that way when they're – no. Her breasts seemed so – no. The smell of the tomato sauce made her – no No.

"Bobby?"

"We will sleep. It's after nine and you are exhausted. So am I. Come on, sweetheart, let's go to bed." He kissed her forehead and she went into the bathroom. Bobby pulled back the coverlet and top sheet. Her green throw was at the foot of the bed, right where it belonged.


	34. Chapter 34

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Ch 34

Edward sat at his place, reading the paper. He'd written the bills, gotten his shirts ready for the laundry, and called his ex-wife. Linda had left him a message about an investment her accountant had suggested she move. She always called Edward to see what he thought concerning money things. They had a good relationship, always had.

He had met Linda in college, right before he entered the academy. They'd had a class together. She was tiny, trim and cute as a button – Eames with dark hair. After graduation, Linda, now an architect had a two-year apprenticeship with Dillon-Rowe, a renowned architectural firm in St. Louis. The long distance relationship nearly ended it for them.

Three-quarters through her apprenticeship, she had been offered a position with Warwick Associates, the premier architectural firm, with offices in New York, Toronto, London, Berlin and Tokyo. She accepted and moved back to New York. They were married that summer.

Edward had never felt comfortable around her family. He felt they looked down on him; he was just a cop, after all. As Linda's career escalated, his remained flat. He was just a cop. Linda didn't care what he did, she loved him. And he loved her. Nothing was ever said about children. It had never come up. It had never happened.

Then, Edward made detective. He was gone all the time, working late, traveling a little. Linda became a partner in the firm. She was jetting all over, being the important, young, creative architect. They grew apart. As simple as that. They just weren't together anymore.

One night at dinner – he had flown to Toronto to spend the weekend with her – they decided not to be married anymore. He had pointed out to her, and she had understood that as the primary wage earner, she would have to pay him alimony; he would get half of everything. She was fine with this. Edward would be a wealthy man.

After dinner, they had gone back to the hotel and made love. Neither had remarried. Occasionally, over the years, they would meet in Toronto, at the same hotel and spend the weekend. Linda still loved him and he still loved her. They just weren't married anymore.

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Eames slept as soundly as she ever had. She was a deep sleeper. Everyone knew to call several times in the night, as she didn't wake easily to the phone ringing. Her alarm clock was one designed for people just like her – loud, obnoxious, and kept going until she shut it off; kind of like Edward two months ago.

Eames had always slept well. As a child, she never fought going to bed. She saw sleep as a refuge and she rarely dreamt. If she did, she did not remember it. This night, she slept as though a nagging thought had been resolved. She slept cleanly, as her grandmother used to say.

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Bobby and Gleason lay together in their bed, holding each other. She was on her right side, left arm resting on his chest, fingers running over the top of the curly hairs that sprinkled his chest. Her left leg rested over his left leg. He stroked her arm. They didn't talk, didn't make love. They just held each other.

Bobby's heart raced with his love for her. He said a silent prayer, thanking God for bringing her back to him. He knew everything would be all right now. He knew it. "I love you," he whispered into her hair.

"I love you, too," she answered, "forever." She sighed contentedly and turned over, snuggling against him as she always had. He turned as well, and curled around her, holding her. Keeping her.

Bobby's eyes filled. He couldn't believe how lucky he was. He had finally found what he'd always wanted, had nearly lost her – twice, and now she was here again. I want this to last forever, he thought.

Bobby's right hand went to her belly and he rubbed lightly. Soft, flat, he thought, but what's inside? Jesus. We've never used a condom. Why? I've always, every time, not once without, used a condom. Except with her. Jesus. She could be – he couldn't even think it.

Would that be so bad? A baby? We'd get married. She's moving to Chicago! His mind whirled. Wait, wait, wait, he screamed at himself, you're making yourself nuts. Wait and see what's up. It's probably nothing. Yeah, probably nothing. Let it be nothing.

Bobby and Gleason slept.

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"Night Jimmy, night Angie. Drive carefully now," Mark Sutton said at the door, watching the couple walk to their cars. Jimmy Deakins had shown up late, hours after his wife had arrived at Mark and Jean Sutton's place. He has a tough job, Mark thought; he's never off the clock.

"I'll be right behind you, ok?" Deakins said to his wife at her car door.

"Ok, I'll go slow so you don't lose me," she answered with a smile. It was an old joke between them.

Deakins kissed his wife on the cheek and headed for his car parked at the curb. It was much later than either of them had been out in years. It would be good to get home. Julie had better be in bed. Their youngest had proven to be a handful.

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Alphonse turned out to be an interesting, experienced lover. He knew the game with the hose. Tillman had brought it up.

"I do know that wonderful game. You don't have any with you, do you? We could play. I get to go first. Do you have any hose?" he had asked. Alphonse reminded Jenese of Canvettelli. Only Alphonse was calmer. Classier. Longer. Thicker.

Tilley looked at Jenny. "Want to?" he asked, hopefully.

Jenese hadn't been hosed off since he had off-ed the artist. Now _that_ boy knew how to play! Jenese regretted having to kill Peignoir; he wasa nice guy. But, business is business, he thought.

"Yeah, I'll play. I've got a piece in the car. I'll be right back." With that, Jenese had gone to the car and dug around for the section that he had used with the painter. The lot was dark, the car was still loaded with the canvases, and he couldn't find the piece of hose. Damn. He didn't have anything to cut a new piece with and he certainly didn't want to take the whole roll upstairs. Jeeze, walking through the lobby with a whole roll of it? I don't think so. However, he thought, I should really cut a new piece, shouldn't reuse the same one – germs, you know. He laughed at that. Where the hell is it?

Then he remembered. Oh, shit. At the storage place, he'd had to move the roll to make room for the paintings. Yeah, he'd taken it out of the boot and moved it to the floor behind the passenger seat. He went to the side of the car and searched around on the floor in the back. The roll was there, but not the used piece. Slowly panic rose. Do not tell me that that piece fell out, he said to himself. It is not back in New York, pointing at those two bodies, my DNA and prints all over it. Peignoir's DNA! He stood up, went back to the boot and slammed the lid. He slammed the car door and headed back into the hotel.

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Edward fell asleep with the paper fallen on his lap. He snored softly and dreamt of Linda. She was building with bricks and mortar in what must be their back yard. He went to help her, and they ended up building a wall.

The wall became a box, with a brick lid. Linda told him to get inside the box, the brick box. He loved her, so he did. He sat inside the brick box and watched her add brick after brick. She smiled at him as she set the last brick. It was dark inside. And quiet.

Edward startled awake with a gasp. He couldn't breathe there for a moment. Jeeze! He looked at the clock, twelve forty-eight. You gotta get to bed, he told himself. He hauled himself out of his chair, dropped the newspaper on it and headed to bed.

Twenty minutes later, Edward was sound asleep.

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"Let's not bother hosing off," Jenese said, looking at the other two men, now naked on the bed. Tillman noticed the change in his lover's demeanor. Something is wrong, he thought. He decided not to pursue it, too much fun was at hand, and mouth, and bum.

"What, no hose? I am so disappointed!" Alphonse pouted.

Jenese undressed and moved onto the huge bed. "I bet we can find other things to do. Just as fun things. Tastier things, tighter things," he said, reaching for the new man's goods. The men merged and became one, several times; sometimes together, sometimes one watched the other two until they were each sticky, sweaty, drained and exhausted.

Finally, the three men lay tangled among the sheets in the king sized bed, sleeping soundly.

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Deakins peeked in on Julie. She looks so innocent, he thought, seeing his youngest daughter sleeping. Why can't she be so innocent when she's awake? He pulled shut his daughter's door.

Angie had changed into her nightgown. She was removing the shams from the head of the bed. "Is she in asleep?" she asked.

"Yes, thank God." He shut their door and undressed. Angie got into bed and watched him. They had been together for so long. She smiled, watching the only man she'd ever been with. She chronicled the changes in his body, his face, his hair. I'm sure he's watched me change as well, she thought.

"Come to bed," she said holding open the covers. Deakins got in, shut off the light and kissed his wife. Deeply. It was after one and he was exhausted, but he loved this woman. Angie returned the kiss, just as deeply.

Forty minutes later, they slept, naked.

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Officer Stan Paganowiecz and his partner, Officer Tasheeka Bale, turned right off Flushing and drove slowly along Clinton Avenue.

"Yeah, but that one didn't count."

"Why the hell not? Damn, Tash, it does too count. Why wouldn't it count?"

"Because you cheated. Cheating doesn't count."

Stan had nothing to say in response. Shit, she caught me, he thought. He slowed the vehicle and Tash turned on the right mounted search light and swung it toward the storage facility. The powerful light illuminated the space between the fence and the first building, nothing. Between the second and third buildings, nothing. Between the third and fourth buildings, "What's that?" Tasheeka said, "Back up. Let's check this out."

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Forty minutes later, a member of CSU removed the wallet from one of the vics and said to a uniformed standing beside him, "Joseph Navicky."

"Navicky, Navicky . . . why's that name familiar?" He though a minute then hollered to his partner, "Hey, Jack, c'mere." Jack stopped talking with another CSU member and walked over. "Who is Joseph Navicky?"

"Navicky? This is Navicky? He's the guy Major Case is looking for. I'll make the call."


	35. Chapter 35

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Ch 35

"Deakins. . . . Ok, thanks. . . . Yes, I'll send them out. What's the address again? . . . Yea got it. I don't have to tell you to tell them not to touch anything, do I? . . . Thanks." He hung up the phone and dialed Eames' number. She answered on the third try. Glad it's not an emergency, he thought.

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"Hello? Eames."

"Alex, are you awake? Sit up and put your feet on the floor. DO IT!"

"Who the hell is this?" She did not sound happy. "Edward, if this is your idea –. Yes, sir. I'm awake." She actually stood up.

"The one-three found Navicky's body with another. They're at a Big Apple Storage on Clinton, off of Flushing in Brooklyn. CSU is already on site. Call Goren and get over there."

"You want Bobby to go to the scene? I thought --."

"Yes, call him. We need to get this case done with. Call him, take him and watch him. Ok?"

"Yes sir."

"Keep me informed. Watch him, Alex."

"I will." She hung up and dialed Bobby's number.

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"Goren." He cleared his throat.

"Bobby, it's me. The one-three found Navicky's body at a storage place in Brooklyn. Deakins said I'm to pick you up and get there."

Son-of-a-bitch! He had a rush of heat. Gleason shifted in her sleep and moaned softly. Goddamn it! I don't want to go. I'm not supposed to go to scenes. Jesus Christ, I'm off this weekend. Gleason is here!

"Bobby?"

"Eames. I'm not supposed to go to scenes, remember. Call Sledge. Call Bishop. Call Logan. I'm not going."

"Bobby, Deakins said you are supposed to go. Now get your ass out of bed and get dressed. I'll be at your place in half an hour. Understand?"

Bobby saw red and screamed at her, "GODDAMN IT!"

Gleason shot up and turned toward him, "Bobby! What's wrong? Are you –, " she saw he was on the phone and stopped.

Eames heard a woman's voice in the background. Son of a gun, she thought. "Look Bobby, I'm sorry to interrupt your night of pleasure, but knock it off and get dressed. I'll be there in thirty minutes. Good bye." She hung up. He's got a woman with him. It must really be over between him and Gleason. Unless that was Gleason. She went into the bathroom.

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Bobby hung up the phone. Jesus Christ. He rested his left elbow on his left knee, his thumb across his temple and his fingers on his forehead.

Gleason looked at him. "Are you all right?" She knew he had screamed a curse into the phone. "Who were you talking to?" She didn't touch him. To be honest, she was a little frightened of him.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Honey, I have to go to a scene. That was Eames. She's –"

He didn't get to finish because Gleason threw off the covers and bolted for the bathroom. He watched her dash out of the room a hand over her mouth. He just sat there. Oh Christ. Morning sickness. She _is_ pregnant. Fuck.

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Eames washed and dressed. She clipped her weapon onto her belt and slipped her shield into her pocket. She grabbed her jacket and keys and was out the door in fifteen minutes. I wonder if that was Gleason, she thought. If not, I wonder if whoever she is will still be there. Bobby is certainly an interesting guy these days.

The drive was quick since there is not much traffic at three-ten in the morning. She thought about Edward. He and Bishop will probably be called to assist later this morning. They already had two cases going, a stolen sailboat and a missing allotment of uranium. Sledge was not happy working with the Feds on that one. Maybe they wouldn't assist after all. The Feds were somewhat demanding. That might mean working with Logan and his new partner. No one really knew her yet.

Eames thought about calling Edward, to tell him about this break. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself, he's asleep. Let the poor guy sleep. You'll see him later, at work. She smiled, realizing she'd never thought of calling him just to tell him something. Ha, she thought, must be love.

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"Are you sure you are all right," Bobby asked her, holding onto her arms. He searched her face. Gleason couldn't look at him.

"Bobby, please. Let me make coffee for you and Alex. Let go of me." Gleason twisted out of his hands and stepped into his green cotton pants; she slept in the tee shirt and still wore it. Then she moved toward the hallway, stopped and turned at the door, "Do you have to shave?" she asked with a shy smile.

He looked at her and said, with a returned smile, "No, it's my weekend off."

"Good. Then don't," she said and headed for the kitchen.

Bobby went into the bathroom and washed up. His mind spun as he dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt. He pulled on socks and tied up his running shoes. Then Bobby retrieved his money clip, shield, knife and keys from the dresser top. He thought about leaving his keys for Gleason and just taking the spare door key. But, he didn't want her to drive until he was sure what was going on. He tucked his keys into his pocket.

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"It's me, Alex," she said into box outside the door to Bobby's small lobby. She heard the door buzz and entered. Eames could count on fewer than ten fingers the number of times she had been inside Bobby's flat in seven years. She climbed the four flights and walked to the second door on the right. She tapped lightly.

The door opened. "Alex, good morning. Come in," Gleason stepped back and Eames entered.

"Hi, Gleason." She wasn't sure what to say next. She didn't have to worry.

"I've made coffee for you and Bobby. It's too early to go out without something. Would you like some orange juice?" Gleason had poured a large glass for Bobby.

"Uh, no, no thank you. The coffee will be good, though. How are you feeling? Bobby said you are back at university."

"Aye, I've been back for –," she hesitated, not wanting to tell about this past week, "for two weeks. I still get tired. The coffee is almost ready." The smell was starting to get to her. "Let me see where he is." Gleason smiled and walked down the hall.

Eames looked around. Bobby's placed looked the same as she remembered. She went to sit on the edge of the sofa and noticed the crocheted throw over the back was all messed up. She saw the scented candle on the end table; it had not been lit, it was new. So, she was gone and now is back. Huh.

"He's almost finished. Let me fill two travel mugs. How do you take your coffee?" Gleason stepped into the kitchen and stopped. She closed her eyes, swallowed, and breathed through her mouth. Oh, God, that smell. She fought her stomach.

"Just a little milk, thanks." Eames crossed to the kitchen and sat at the table, watching the other woman. Gleason was dressed in a giant green tee shirt and green plaid cotton pants, also too large. Those must be Bobby's clothes. The pants looked like they were cinched at the waist with a rubber band. Even this early in the morning, Gleason was beautiful. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot. She had a magnificent glow. Eames rose and turned to the fridge to get the milk.

Gleason opened the cupboard to the right of the sink and reached up for the two travel mugs on the top shelf. Eames got the milk, turned and saw Gleason suddenly lower her arm and lean on the edge of the sink. She gagged once and Eames set down the milk and was beside her in a second.

"Gleason, are you ok?" Eames put a hand on her back. Gleason gagged again, but held it.

Gleason took a deep breath, then another, "Uh huh, I'm fine." She swallowed. "Thanks," it was a whisper.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Bobby was across the room in three steps. Eames turned and stepped away. Bobby turned Gleason, held her arms, bent and looked in her face. "Did you get sick again?"

"Bobby, please, let go." She was so embarrassed. She turned back to the cupboard, retrieved the two mugs, and set them on the counter. Bobby watched Gleason pour a bit of milk into one mug, her hand was shaking. "There's a glass of juice for you," she said, nodding to the glass. He turned to look at Eames, who met his eyes and then looked down.

"Eames," he said by way of greeting. She nodded back.

"Drink the juice and get going," Gleason said quietly. She handed him the glass and continued with the coffee. The silence was thick.

"Do you want anything?" Bobby asked Eames.

"No, I'm fine. Gleason offered. The coffee will be great. We should get going, though."

Bobby nodded and drained the juice in three gulps. He wiped his mouth with his hand and rinsed the glass, setting it in the sink. Gleason handed him the tall travel mug and gave the squat one to Eames."

Bobby set his mug on the table and took Gleason by the waist. "Are you going to be alright?" he asked.

Gleason reddened. "Bobby, go." She squirmed in his embrace. She was very uncomfortable with Alex standing right there.

His hands went to her head and he tilted up her face. He kissed her tenderly. "Go back to bed. I'll call you later. I don't know how long I'll be; it may be a while. Don't do anything today. Just rest." He stared at her. "Ok?"

Gleason put her hands on his chest and said, "Alex is waiting. Go. Be careful."

Bobby held her tight and whispered, "I love you."

"Go," she gave him a soft shove.

Alex had retreated to the far corner of the living room, looking at DVD cases, not even seeing the titles. She had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. These kinds of moments between people were so intimate, private – she wanted to disappear. She'd never imagined Bobby doing this, being this tender, loving. She was embarrassed to witness such love. Especially with Bobby.

Bobby took his jacket from the coat closet and said, "You ready?"

Alex turned around and said, "Yeah, let's go. Gleason, thanks for the coffee. See you later."

Gleason smiled, and smoothed back her hair, "Take care of each other." Bobby opened the door and Eames stepped through. He turned and looked at Gleason one more time "Lock the door." She gave him a tiny wave, shut the door and turned the bolt.


	36. Chapter 36

196

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Ch 36

Eames drove through the nearly empty streets. Neither she nor Bobby had spoken. Silence between them was not unusual. This silence, however, was swollen with unspoken words.

Bobby was glad to be going to a scene, but he would rather be in bed with Gleason. They needed to talk. She needs to see a doctor, he thought. I'll get one of those home pregnancy tests. Then we'll know what to do. It may be nothing. Maybe it's nothing. Let it be nothing.

Eames' head was swimming. Gleason had nearly thrown up in the sink. Morning sickness? Apparently, she had thrown up earlier. Is she pregnant? Oh, my God, what will they do? How old is she, anyway? Older than me and I just squeaked by with my nephew. Bobby with a baby? She had to smile. Holy mackerel!

The silence thickened.

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"This is Clinton, coming up." Bobby said. Flashing lights reflected high in the bare limbs of the old trees lining Clinton. Eames put on the right signal and slowed. "It should be just around the corner on the right." He opened her glove box and removed a pair of latex gloves from a box of size small for her and took a pair of extra large from a plastic zipper bag for himself.

They made the turn and the street was alive with flashing lights. Eames pulled up behind a black and white, near the corner. They started up the block and both pulled their shields from a pants pocket and clipped them to their lapels. They were snapping on the latex as they reached the high main gate. Gleason took the lead.

"Who called this in?" she asked a uniformed.

"Hey Paganowiecz, Bales," the officer hollered, "Major Case is here." Then to the two detectives, "The bodies are down there, between the third and fourth buildings. Follow your nose."

Eames and Goren walked to the third building and turned. Portable floodlights had been set up and lit the area between the two buildings like a stage.

The smell of decomp was pervasive. "Geeze," said Eames, putting her hand to her nose. She hated all things gross. Bobby didn't seem to notice or mind. He strode up to the bodies and bent down.

"These bodies have been here since sometime Wednesday, right? It looks like animals have been at them. See how the cheek and lips are torn? Is this Navicky?" he asked, looking up at Eames and she nodded. He moved to the other body and examined both hands. They were palms up and the fingertips were shredded. "Teeth did not do this, though." He thought, "Maybe carrion birds."

He set down the hand, went back to Navicky's body and swept his eyes over it. Bobby spoke aloud as if to himself, "Two shots to the front of the head. Two shots in the back of the head on the other guy. Do we know who this man is?" pointing and looking up again. She shrugged and mumbled, "I'll find out."

Bobby continued, "Both shots are close together, the shooter was expert. They don't look close range." Bobby stood up and looked to his left, toward the back of the facility. Eames watched him think. She knew to be quiet while he visualized the scene.

Bobby swallowed, pursed his lips and then said, pointing, "The shooter was back here." He walked toward the far end of the building and looked back toward the bodies. Eames watched him process, watched him envisage the scenario. "He parked somewhere where these two couldn't see or hear him." Bobby turned and looked along the driveway between the two rows of buildings. "He probably parked back here and hid behind the end of the building. His aim is too exact for him to be any further away." He turned and looked at the building directly behind this one, to the left again. "Yeah, he stood here and waited for his moment. He shot one, turned back, hid, waited and then shot the other." Bobby moved as the shooter may have moved. "He's good but he wouldn't be able to get off four shots in quick succession and maintain that degree of accuracy."

"I could," Eames said, with her hand still her over nose. Bobby looked at her, smiled knowingly, and nodded.

"He used a silencer. He did this during the daytime. This neighborhood would recognize gun shots."

Bobby walked back to the bodies. His hands indicated the action as he said, "They were moving the art from the unit to the boot. Do we know who this other guy is?" He asked again, looking at the uniformed standing by.

"J. T. Pangborn," he replied.

"Do we have anything on him? Who is he?" He looked from the officer to Eames who shook her head and shrugged.

The officer asked, "Detective, are you finished with the bodies? The ME called and is waiting to examine, she's not happy."

"Uh, yeah, I'm done," Bobby looked at Eames who was not looking too well.

Bobby stood quietly thinking and then said, "Let's open that unit. Snap the hasp and bag the lock." The officer nodded and went to get the bolt cutters.

Eames had to walk away for a bit. She was going to pull a Gleason right here if she didn't get away from that smell.

"The place has video surveillance. I'll arrange to get the tapes," she said to Bobby.

He nodded and asked, "Did anyone contact the owner?"

"I'll find out." Eames nearly trotted away.

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Alphonse woke slowly and saw that he was with two other men. What did I . . . oh yeah. Not bad, he thought, remembering, a little sore, but not bad. The other two were sound asleep, hanging onto each other. His heart saddened at the sight. They were lucky to have each other. He had watched them with each other last night. Alphonse saw a tenderness he had never known.

Carefully, he extricated himself from the bed. He quietly picked up his clothes and walked into the bathroom. Seven minutes later, he crept back into the bedroom and looked around. Ah, there, on the dresser, just what he wanted, needed. Alphonse helped himself to the two wallets and the set of keys left out for the taking. So he took.

Alphonse left the hotel room door unlatched and hung the 'Service Please' sign on the handle. In the parking lot, he walked around, clicking the unlock button until he found the right car. It was small, dirty, and – what is this, six crates stacked in the back. Well, we will have time to check that later. Alphonse got in, checked the gas – will need to fill up soon, and headed out. Bye, bye Baltimore.

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Bobby moved to the car's boot. He pulled his high power penlight from his jacket pocket and peered inside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The rear seatback had been unlatched, pushed forward and laid onto the back seat to expand the cargo space. Nothing caught his eye. He walked around the vehicle looking, just seeing what was there. He saw nothing.

"Dust the passenger side door, glove box lid and dash for prints. Pangborn's fingers are too destroyed to get prints," he said to a CSU member standing nearby, waiting for direction.

"Detective, the lock is open," an officer told him.

"Thanks." Bobby watched the officer raise the overhead door. "Catch that light pull," he said, and the officer pulled the cord to illuminate the area. Nothing. Not a thing. It was completely empty. Navicky must have rented this space just to stash the paintings, he thought.

Bobby stood in the center of the unit and slowly turned three hundred sixty degrees. He was looking for anything – anything that would point him and Eames toward the shooter. He stopped and looked at the car again. His eyes strayed to the underside.

What is that? Something sat half hidden behind the left rear tire, pointing to the front end of the vehicle. Bobby bent at the waist and looked again. He straightened and went to the back of the car, stepping over the two bodies and around the medical examiner's attendant prepping the bodies for transport to the morgue. He got down on his stomach, and saw it.

"Uh, let me have those scissors, would you?" he said to the attendant. The fellow picked up the long, narrow scissors and handed them to the detective. Bobby took them and reached for the object. He slid the long, closed scissors into the open end and lifted it. He held it carefully, struggled to his feet, and called, "I need a large bag here, please."

A CSU member appeared holding open a large evidence bag and Bobby placed the foot-long section of wire wrapped hose inside.

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Gleason went to the sofa and sat for a bit. Thoughts swirled. She was happy to be back with Bobby. His love for her was obvious. This is what I want; I want to be with him. I want a normal, regular life. Do you want a family, she heard herself ask. You know what is wrong with you, don't you? You think you are preg– she would not allow herself to continue that thought.

Gleason absolutely could not even consider the possibility. She pushed away any conscious thought of it. She could do that. She had done it all the while she was with Clive. She had pushed away all conscious thought of what he was doing to her whilst it was happening. She had put a wall around all things Clive. She could do the same with this.

Having made that decision, she went to the bedroom. She felt too keyed up to go back to bed. She glanced at the clock, four-fifteen. She opened the closet door and pulled out the clothesbasket. She would wash clothes today. She started sorting and smiled as she made piles of Bobby's things. Estella had done this on her days to clean. Even as Gleason had begun to feel stronger and wanted to do more, Bobby insisted that she not. Gleason decided that was easier to give in to him than to fight him – on certain things. Besides, Estella took great joy in caring for them. She would be here this afternoon and there would be nothing for her to do. Gleason was sure, however, that Estella would find ways to fill the time.

Gleason picked up a one of his socks; he has huge feet she said to herself. He is big all over, she thought with a smile. She made piles for his boxers, undershirts. His dress shirts went into a pile for the laundry; she could drop them off Monday on her way to class. The sheets made a pile of their own. Her things made a small pile. Except for her jeans, her things would be one load; she would wash his undershirts and white gym socks with her things. Her jeans and his jeans would wash with his dress socks and gym clothes. She picked up the sorted basket and took it down the hall, setting it by the door. She opened the hall closet, took the jug of laundry soap from the top shelf, and then set it on top of the clothes in the basket.

Gleason went back to the bedroom and retrieved a few hangers. She took the pottery jar with quarters from the top of his dresser. She returned to the living room and stuffed those items in among the clothes. There. This was nice. She smiled thinking how right this felt.

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Deakins couldn't get back to sleep after the call about the bodies. Angie slept through the whole conversation, the result of being a longtime cop's wife. He sat up, turned and looked at his wife. He pulled the cover up over her bare shoulder and back. Then he stood and pulled on a pair of pants and went to look in on his youngest daughter.

Julie slept like the little girl she had once been. She was fifteen and was at her absolute worst. Boys, drugs, smoking, drinking, two tattoos, a pierced lip, shoplifting, an attitude and that mouth – he and Angie had raised her as they had the other two. Why was Julie so different?

Deakins pulled shut her door and went downstairs into the kitchen. He poured a glass of milk and sat at the table. He brushed crumbs from the cloth; Julie had made a sandwich. She never used a plate.

His mind wandered. Saturday, he thought. Deakins was always on call, but he had hoped he would not have to go in this weekend. He had a list of things he wanted to do around here. However, now he would have to go in to see about the bodies they had found. He would try to get in and out quickly. He wanted to do something nice with Angie tonight.

Deakins mind wandered back to their bed earlier. He smiled at the recollection. They had not made love in a long time. He and Angie were dedicated. He considered himself lucky to have found such a good woman. She was one of a kind. Actually, he thought, Angie reminded him of an older Gleason. Refined, classy, smart, beautiful. Bobby is a lucky man, too, he thought.

What had happened to those two, he wondered. When did Gleason leave? Why? Deakins figured Bobby was not the easiest person to live with, but what could have happened to make her leave? She must have left last weekend, he thought, that's when Bobby's trouble started. I hope they work things out, not just for his behavior at work, but also for them. I want Bobby to be happy. He's a good man.

Deakins finished the milk, rinsed the glass and returned to bed.

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Finally, Gleason felt tired. She went back to bed but couldn't sleep right away. She pulled the covers tight around her, her green throw against her cheek. She began to cry softly. No, no, no. Please no, she thought.

She turned over and pulled Bobby's pillow to her chest. She breathed in his scent. God, she loved him. He loved her. What if . . . no, no. She heaved a shuddering sigh. Slowly, she fell asleep.


	37. Chapter 37

202

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Ch 37

"Do you want to stop and get some breakfast?" Eames asked Bobby.

"It's up to you."

Eames was hungry now that they were away from that stench. She caught a whiff of it from Bobby's clothes. It would dissipate. That is all Gleason needs to smell, ha!

"What are you hungry for? Fast food? No, not fast food. Let's go eat like civilized people." Eames drove on.

Bobby was thinking about the hose. He thought about Mike. He wondered, what would two men do with a foot-long piece of hose like that? What would you . . . ? How would you . . . ? Where would you . . . ? Oh . . . yeah . . . yeah, sure. Ok. Well, we will get some good DNA out of that.

"How's this?" Eames had pulled into a family style restaurant with all day breakfasts.

Bobby said nothing and got out.

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Gleason stood in the road. It was perfectly silent. She listened, but did not hear anything. The corn did not rustle, the leaves on the trees ahead on the left hung still, as if in a painting. No birds sang, no one laughed or cried. Where is everybody, she wondered. She began to walk down the road.

There is someone, down there, beyond the stone wall. Who is that? Those men, who are they? She started down the road again. She kept her eye on them. They are talking. Wait, that one man is holding a child.

I know those men! I know that child, that's my little boy. That's Bobby with our son! He's talking to Gavin! She called out to them, but made no sound. I want to speak with them. She called out another silent greeting.

She watched Gavin reach and stroke the child's head. She was getting closer, closer than she'd ever been. She could see Bobby's face. Oh, how happy he is! Their son was being shy and looked away from Gavin, back over Bobby's shoulder. She wanted to see his face. She reached the place where the rail fence met the stone wall and made the turn toward the two men.

Suddenly they turned and began to walk away. Wait, she called silently. Wait!

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Deakins turned off the alarm before it went off, as he did most mornings. He lay next to his wife, thinking how old he felt. He was tired; he had gotten, what, two, three hours max. His body felt heavy, thick. He was in good shape for a man his age, he just felt old. At one point last night, making love with Angie actually felt like work. It was great, but it was obvious he is no longer a kid.

Technically, he was off this weekend. Technically, he was never off. He turned over and kissed Angie's shoulder, then got up. He showered, dressed casually and went back to his sleeping wife.

"Hey," he whispered, smoothing her hair. "Ange? I'm going to go. Ange?"

"Hmmm?" Angie roused and looked up at him. "What time is it?"

"It's just after six. They found two bodies last night; one of them is a suspect in the art heist. I'm going to go in and see what Eames and Goren found out. I'll be back after lunch."

"Ok, be careful. Would you look – "

"Yes, I'll look in on her. Let's do something tonight. Go to a movie or something. Maybe Julie would go, too." He raised his eyebrows at this and Angie smiled. Deakins bent down and kissed his wife as he had every morning of their married life. "Love you."

"I love you, too."

Jimmy Deakins pulled shut their bedroom door and checked in on their sleeping daughter. Let this be a good day, he silently prayed.

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"Thanks," Eames said to the server. Bobby was being quiet. He seemed preoccupied. "Everything OK?" she asked.

Bobby wiped his hands over his face and then said, "Yeah, sure. I'm just really tired."

Eames nodded. "How's Gleason doing? She seemed kind of queasy this morning."

Bobby's head dropped toward his left shoulder. His eyes closed and his hands folded. Should I say anything, he wondered. He wanted to ask Eames about what was going on with Gleason. She would know, she had been pregnant with her nephew.

"Uhm, uh . . ." Bobby's hands began to move. Eames watched him struggle.

"Bobby, is Gleason OK?"

He exhaled and covered his face with his hands again. "She, she's –,"

"Here's your orange juice, tea and coffee. Would you like water, too?" the server set down the drinks and smiled broadly. The detectives both looked up. Eames nodded.

"Thanks," said Bobby. The server left and he took his juice, draining half of it. "So, what are you missing today?" The moment and opportunity were over.

Eames looked at him knowingly. "I'm not missing anything. What about you and Gleason?" He said nothing. "Bobby what's going on? Is she ok?"

Red began to seep into his field of vision. His hands clenched. He rolled his head and shut his eyes. Eames watched him seethe. "Ok, ok, forget it. Bobby, it's ok. You found that piece of hose. Is that the murder weapon, do you think?" Eames was desperate to change the subject. She did not want him to lose it in here.

Bobby's head began to pound. He forced himself to take deep breaths. His frustration was killing him. He wanted to know what the fuck was wrong with Gleason, he wanted to ask Eames – she would know about this stuff. Ask her you idiot! She's right here. You trust Eames. Ask her. ASK HER! But he didn't.

Instead, he said, "Yeah, I think so. I'm pretty sure the wire around it will match the ligature marks on the artist's neck. I sent it with the bodies to the ME. There's got to be DNA in it."

"What? DNA _in_ it? Oh, do I even want to know?" Her face wrinkled up in disgust.

Bobby lowered his voice, "Well, I was told that in addition to being used in home brewing, it's, uh, used by gay men in a sex act."

Eames looked at him skeptically, "You were told? By whom? Or, do I not want to know that, either?"

Bobby looked at her, he raised his eyebrows, he nodded, his head tilted. Eames looked back at him thinking, whom did he talk to about this that would have told . . . oh, my God! "Mike?" she whispered. Bobby just looked at her. "Are you saying that Mike is gay? Did he tell you this?"

Bobby shifted in his seat and replied, "Not in so many words."

"So, what is the sex act? Did he tell you?"

Bobby looked down at the tabletop; he couldn't look at her. "No, he didn't tell me. But, but I, I think I figured it out." He glanced up at his partner. Does she need to know this? Does she even want to know? He looked back down and did not say any more.

They sat silently for a long moment. "All right. Tell me. What do two guys do with twelve inches of hose?"

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Jenese stretched and reached for his lover. Tillman felt his lover's hand and moved closer. They lay together, spooning – always fun for those two as it always led to something more. Jenese nibbled Tilley's neck. Tilley's hand moved to his own goods. He pulled, stretching out his length; he stiffened faster stretched out. He wanted to stiffen fast, Jenny was always eager in the morning.

Jenese was already hard. He moved his hips slowly. Tilley pushed his ass tighter against Jenny's crotch and Jenny began to move his rod between Tilley's legs. Tilley could feel the other man's breath quicken on his neck. Tilley stroked faster, tighter.

"C'mere, in my mouth. C'mere," breathed Jenese and he rolled onto his back. Tilley turned and straddled his lover's head tilting his penis toward the tongue licking up at him.

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Bobby had never been so uncomfortable. So, he went clinical. "Think about it, Eames. A length of hose, foot long, open at both ends, open inside. Expandable, flexible hose, wider when pushed together and then tighter when stretched. About an inch and a quarter wide . . . what could two guys do with it? Where would they put it?" He watched her process these bits of information. He saw imagination dawn to understanding. She looked up at him; eyes wide open.

"You don't mean . . . one on – in – each end . . . oh, Bobby, that's, that's just – sick."

"It's kind of like those Chinese handcuffs we had when we were kids. You know, those thin tubes woven of shaved bamboo strips – one finger in each –."

"I get it, I get it."

"Here you are, a cheese and onion omelet with home fries, sausage links and wheat toast for you," said the server, setting the plate in front of Eames. "And for you, sir, two eggs over medium, home fries, bacon, and country toast. Can I get you anything else right now?" She smiled at the two and they shook no.

Eames looked at her sausages, "Do you want these? I can even look at them without seeing that piece of hose."

"Are you sure," Bobby asked.

"Here, eat up," said Eames, spearing the sausages and dropping them onto Bobby's plate. He smiled.

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"Mitter Bobby? Mitter Bobby Lay-dee? Mitter Bobby? Mitter Bobby Lay-dee?" Estella had let herself in and called softly. She walked quietly down the hall, opened the bedroom door a bit and peeked in. Gleason was alone and sound asleep.

Estella smiled and thought to herself, de preddy lady need her rett, she growing a baby. She donn know, but she growing a baby, yet she is. Estella smiled broadly, waked back down the hall, bent and picked up the laundry basket.

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Dr. Elizabeth Rodgers looked at the two bodies. Animals do such thorough work, she thought looking at Navicky's ripped and shredded lips and left cheek, the lips nearly gone. She examined Pangborn's fingertips. A few nails remained, hanging by cuticle.

Rodgers went to Navicky's head and peered into the two holes with a high power light and scope; she caught a reflection from one slug, she would have to work to get the other one. She did the same with the holes in the back of Pangborn's head. Both of those were buried somewhere deep inside. What a way to spend a Saturday, she thought.

She went to the evidence bag and opened it. Rodgers pulled out the length of hose and thought, what did Goren find this time. She thought she could see a dried substance in the center and along the inside.

Rodgers went to her phone and dialed Goren's cell.

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"Captain, I thought you were off this weekend," Sledge said to Deakins. Sledge had just stepped from the men's room when Deakins stepped from the lift.

"Yeah, so did I," Deakins replied. "Is your partner in?"

"Not yet."

"When she shows, I want to see you both in my office."

Sledge nodded and headed to his desk. Deakins walked to his. He was going to tell Sledge and Bishop he was tossing the missing uranium case back to the Feds. They didn't need to be doing all the leg work for a case they would not get a mention. Besides, he wanted Sledge and Bishop available to work this art heist. Upstairs was getting antsy.

Deakins was concerned about his department's solve rate. He had had a memo mentioning that his department's 'cost per hour per solve rate' was slipping. His people had to pick up the pace. Deakins thought that the memo came on the heels of Bobby's being off for those weeks. He did not want to believe that one individual could carry a whole department in that way; but it was starting to look that way.

Deakins noticed that Goren and Eames hadn't returned yet. He wanted to talk with them as well. He really wanted to talk with Eames, however. I hope Bobby was a good boy, I want to put him back out at scenes. He sees things, thinks of things. Deakins' phone rang and he reached for it.

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Bobby and Eames were getting into the car when Bobby's cell rang. "Goren."

"What do you want me to do with this piece of hose?" Dr. Rodgers was a woman of few words.

"Yeah, that hose. Well, we need an examination of the DNA from the inside. There will probably be more than one person's DNA in there."

"What is that in there, do you know?"

"You tell us. But I think it's semen."

Rodgers was quiet for a few seconds. Then, "Are you telling me two men ejaculated into this piece of hose?"

"Ah, yeah, I think so."

"Jesus. Goren, when are you going to give me something normal? Something that doesn't stir up all kinds of mental images. I'll do the hose first. Bye."

Bobby flipped shut his phone. He and Eames drove to OPP in silence.


	38. Chapter 38

207

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Ch 38

Gleason awoke and stayed still for a few minutes, waiting to see what her stomach was going to do. She turned and sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing, everything was staying put. She stood up and heard something in the front of the flat. Gleason glanced at the clock on Bobby's night table. Eleven-fourteen!

She headed down the hall and met Estella coming in the door holding the clothes basket full of clean, folded laundry.

"Mitter Bobby Lady! You sleep long time. You feel bedder? You hungry? I make you a good lunch." Estella set the basket on Bobby's chair.

"Estella, how are you? I was going to do those clothes."

"Oh no, Mitter Bobby Lady, I do dem. It my job to do dem. What you want for lunch, huh?"

"Estella, please, call me Gleason. Ok?"

Estella smiled broadly. "Soon we call you 'mamma' en Mitter Bobby 'pappa,' no?"

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"Eames, I'm not sure I want to wait for the ME's report on the hose or bodies. What do you say we just check in with Deakins and then head out?" Bobby asked as the came off the lift. Bobby was eager to get back to Gleason.

"Eager to get back to Gleason, are you?" Eames said with a smile. Bobby pursed his lips and looked down.

They entered the bull pen just behind Bishop. Sledge saw the three heading in and walked over, looking at Eames. "Bishop, Deakins wants to see us when you get it together."

"Good morning to you, too," she said to her partner and walked to her desk.

Sledge smiled at Alex, "What are you two doing here? I thought you were off this weekend?" His eyes never left Alex's eyes and she stared back at him, finally looking down. Bobby noticed the way they were looking at each other and took a step back. He bent over, looking at Eames from the side. An idea began to take shape. Eames . . . and Sledge? No. . .

Bobby straightened up and said, "Uh, the one-three found two bodies at a storage place in Brooklyn. One is a suspect in the art theft. We went to check them out. But we're not staying. Right, Eames?"

"Let's go see what the boss says." She glanced up at Sledge and then moved to her desk.

Bobby watched Sledge, wanting to see what he would do. He wasn't disappointed. Sledge watched Eames walk the whole way to her desk, then he watched her settle in. Sledge turned back, looked at Bobby and saw that Bobby knew. Bobby looked at Sledge and a small smile began to creep across his face.

"What? What do you think you know, Goren? Huh? You think you know something?"

Bobby smiled, looked at the floor, did a backwards two-step and put up two hands, "Hey, I just watch people and think. That's all I do." Then he looked up at Sledge, still smiling that smart-ass smile.

Sledge's face softened. "Yeah, well . . . so . . . anyway . . ." he cleared his throat, turned and walked away. Ha! thought Bobby – Eames and Sledge, who'd a thought it! He walked toward his desk still smiling.

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Gleason was stunned. "What? Estella . . . what . . . are. No! Why would you say such a thing?" Gleason wrapped her arms across herself.

Estella was taken back. "Oh, oh, Mitt, I sorry. Sorry. I mean notting. Sorry." She turned and picked up the basket from the chair and stepped past Gleason. Gleason turned and watched the other woman walk down the hall. Gleason followed, but went into the bathroom instead.

Estella made the bed and began to put away the clothes. She pulled open the chest drawer where his socks go. She saw that it was empty. She shut it and opened another. Empty. What dees people do? she wondered. Estella turned to the dresser and pulled open a drawer. His tee shirts should be in this drawer. His jeans were stacked inside instead. She pushed it shut. Everyting id wrong here. I donn know notting no more. She stacked the folded clothes on the bed and set the basket in the bottom of the closet.

Gleason and Estella met in the hall. "Sorry, Mitt," Estella said sliding past the tall woman.

"Estella, wait." The other woman stopped short. "Estella, I, I'm sorry I answered the way I did."

Estella turned around, not making eye contact. "Mitt, you donn know you habb a baby in you?" Slowly she looked up

Gleason's hands went to her mouth, fingertips covering her lips. She couldn't move. Her eyes filled, she couldn't breathe.

"Mitt, you ok?" Estella stepped to Gleason and put a hand on each arm. "Come, sit in deh kitchen. Come sit." Estella led her to a chair in the kitchen and she sat. Estella was in high gear. First, she poured Gleason a glass of orange juice. "Here, drink dis, it good for you and for deh baby." Then she set the kettle on to boil and prepared the tea. She opened the tin bread box, peeked in and saw nothing. "No bread? Tsk!"

"Estella, sit, please. Sit down." Gleason barely whispered.

Estella stopped, looked at Gleason and slid into the chair across from her. She said nothing.

Gleason hugged herself and rocked slightly. She stared at the table cloth. "Why, why do you think I'm, I . . . why do you . . ." She could finish neither the thought nor the sentence.

Estella stared at the woman she'd come to look on as a lovely, tall, white daughter. She realized Gleason really didn't know. She recognized the fear. The denial. She saw that Gleason didn't want to be pregnant. "Oh, Mitt. Oh, Mitt. I see it. I see it in you eyes, you skin. Firss, I tink you just sick from deh shoot. An you was sick from deh shoot, but den you get bedder and den I see dat you and Mitter Bobby, you make a baby." She stopped and looked at the fear in the other woman's face.

No, no. She is wrong. I cannot. Cannot. No. Gleason felt panic rise. No, please, no. She began to cry into her hands. Estella was on her feet in a second and stood beside Gleason, arms around her, rocking her. "Shh, Mitt, shh. Id ok. Dis a good ting. A baby witt Mitter Bobby id a good ting. You see. You habb a good baby. Mitter Bobby be bery happy you give him a baby. Shh."

Gleason sobbed. The kettle began to whistle. Estella let go and turned off the stove, setting the kettle aside. "Mitt, I make you some tea. Den we talk, OK?"

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Tilley finished jerking into Jenny's mouth and Jenny spit onto the sheet. He turned the other man over onto his knees and pushed him forward. He wiped up what he had spit with two finders and rubbed it where it would do the most good. He set himself, pushed twice and growled as he emptied.

Both men fell forward panting. Jenese rolled off his partner and asked, "Is Alphonse in the bathroom? We don't want to be rude."

Tilley called, "Alley, you in there? Come out, come out, wherever you are . . . but only to those who love you!" It was an old gay joke, but still made Jenny laugh, every time. "Alley? Alphonse."

Jenese sat up, then stood up. He walked toward the bathroom but stopped at the dresser. Sonofafuckingbitch!

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"Shut the door," Deakins said to Bishop and Sledge as they entered his office. "We're going to hand that uranium case back to the Feds. It's their pet anyway. We're just free labor for them. I want you two to assist Goren and Eames with this painting theft. This case needs to get done. It should have been done a week ago. I want you two to sit in on their debriefing from the scene. Then the five of us will divvy up the work. That's it."

Neither Sledge nor Bishop had made a comment. They walked back to their areas. Silently, they were both glad to be rid of the uranium case. The Feds had been impossible to work with. Pushy, bossy, uppity and inconsiderate. Sledge was happy to be able to work closer with Alex. Damn that Goren, sniffing out what was going on. Sledge thought, Goren will be cool with it, though. What's Alex going to say when she learns that Goren figured it out. What she doesn't know can't hurt her, or piss her off, right?

"Goren, Eames – my office," the captain called to the other pair of detectives.

Bobby picked up his portfolio and waited for Eames to get her notepad. They walked over to the boss's office.

"Have a seat. I want to get this case done, it's been going on for too long. Sledge and Bishop are going to assist. They'll sit in on your report and then we'll see who does what. Bobby, go get them, will you?" Bobby stood and left the room. "How was he?"

"Good, good." Eames replied.

"I want specifics when we're done."

She nodded and the three other detectives returned.

"Ok, what's up with the bodies?"

For the next ten minutes, Bobby and Eames shared every detail of the scene. Eames was searching the system for any J.T. Pangborn. The storage facility owner was burning copies of the surveillance DVDs and would bring them by that afternoon; the security system was top of the line. Bobby explained the hose. Deakins just shook his head and wiped his face. Sledge made some kind of nasty, smart remark. And, Bishop just closed her eyes. Bobby did not name the source that had instigated the subsequent deduction. Don't ask, don't tell had always been a good idea, he thought.

Deakins suggested they call the ME to see where Rodgers was on the autopsies. He wanted them to run the stippling marks on the slugs from the bodies. Maybe the weapon had been used in a prior shooting. They had a lot to do.

"I want to close this as soon as possible. Anything else?" Bobby wanted to ask about leaving early; but he didn't, not after that last bit about closing the case quickly. No one said anything so Deakins continued, "Ok, get done what you can today. Keep me informed. That's it." The four stood and Deakins said, "Alex, a word please." She stopped and Bobby turned as well. He nodded to the captain as if he knew Alex was going to report on him. It was OK. He was fine at the scene. He turned back and headed to his desk.

"So, how'd he do?"

"He was good. His old self. Bobby was in top form."

"No flare ups? Nothing?"

Eames thought about telling Deakins about the moment in the restaurant when he'd tensed after she had asked one too many times about Gleason. Tell it all, she said to herself. She hesitated and Deakins called it.

"What happened?"

"Um, nothing really. In fact, he did a good job holding onto it. We stopped for breakfast after we left the scene and I was asking about Gleason. She's back, by the way. She was nearly sick in the sink this morning making coffee for us. Apparently, she had been sick earlier."

"Wait, wait. Gleason's back? When did she get back?"

"I don't know. She opened the door when I got to their flat at three or whenever it was."

"She was sick? What, the flu?" Then it began to take shape. Eames watched it dawn. Deakins looked at Bobby's partner. "Oh man, she was sick? This morning? Oh man." They looked at each other. "Is she?"

Eames looked down. "I don't know. It seemed like he wanted to tell me something or ask me something at the restaurant. I asked if she was ok and he kind of fought going off the second time I asked. I could see him seething, so I changed the subject and he was fine. It passed."

Deakins said again, "Oh man." He thought a moment and then said, "OK, finish up and then get out of here. He needs to be with her. Take him home. Let me know what you find out."

Eames nodded and headed to her desk.

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Gleason wrapped her hands around the mug and looked at the table cloth. Estella sat across from her, stirring milk into her mug. Neither said anything for a moment.

"Mitt, you donn wan to habb dis baby?" Estella asked softly.

Gleason could not look up at the kind, older woman. She didn't know what she wanted. She had never considered the idea of having a child. Never.

"I, I . . . Estella . . . I."

"Do Mitter Bobby know you habb a baby in you?"

Gleason looked up at this. Estella could see that Gleason had not even thought about Bobby in this equation. "Estella I don't think I'm . . . I don't think it's so. I don't."

Estella looked at Gleason and knew this whole baby situation was not going to go well. She saw the new grey tint to the inner portion of Gleason's aura. This was not going to be a happy occasion. She felt a tremendous sadness in her heart.

She loved her Mitter Bobby as she would have loved a son. Looking after his home had given her such joy, even though she only saw him once a week, and often he wasn't even there. He was such a good man; she was proud of him and was in awe of his mother, the woman who made him into the man he had become. Then she had met Gleason, the woman her Mitter Bobby loved. Oh, he did love her, Estella had never seen such love in a man's aura. Gleason was a lucky woman. Gleason loved Bobby with the same passion, but her aura was wrinkled. Mitter Bobby's woman had suffered, she was so fearful, unsure. Estella had wanted to tell her not to worry, that she was safe in Mitter Bobby's love, they were meant to be together. But Estella had said nothing. Not everyone understood or accepted her sight.

Now Estella saw the grey in the center of Gleason's aura. She saw the light green and yellow underneath, but this layer was grey. It would not go well. And she was sad for her Mitter Bobby and his Lady Love. She reached over and took the Lady's hand and said slowly, softly, "Mitt, it be ok. You and Mitter Bobby habb each udder. It be ok. Tings work out. Dey do. You see." Estella squeezed Gleason's hand and then said, "Now, you eat somting. I make you a good lunch. What you want?"


	39. Chapter 39

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Ch 39

"Say, can you drop me at Gleason's flat? I want to pick up her car."

It was just past one and they were in the lift headed down to the Eames' vehicle parked in the deck. The captain had set them loose shortly after the meeting with Sledge and Bishop. Bobby was happily surprised, he had thought they would be putting in a full day.

It had turned out that the owner of the storage facility was not going to be able to get copies of the surveillance DVDs burned as quickly as he had thought, they wouldn't be delivered until sometime Monday. Then, Rodgers had been called home, some family emergency. She said she wanted to do the autopsies herself, so that meant the slugs were still inside the vics' heads, so the stippling check could not be done yet. The bodies were in cold storage until she could get back, probably sometime later that night or Sunday. At least the DNA in the hose had been prepared for processing so that information would be coming sometime Sunday. Pretty much everything had ground to a halt, which sent Eames and Goren free.

"Sure, no problem."

They rode in silence again. Both Eames and Bobby were wondering about Gleason. Each wanted to ask something. Eames went first, "Bobby, is Gleason . . . is she . . . –,"

"What! Is she what!" Bobby's head snapped toward her as he spit out the words. "What do you want to know, Eames? Is she what? Huh?"

Eames was so sorry she had said anything. "Never mind, Bobby, never mind. I was just concerned. She's been so weak since the shooting. I was just hoping nothing had gotten to her, you know a virus or something. That's all. Lighten up."

As quickly as it had come, it was gone. Bobby felt awful for having snapped at his partner. "I'm sorry. I, I didn't mean to. . . She's, she's . . ." Ask her now, he shouted to himself. Ask Eames about it.

Eames glanced over at her partner and saw a boy, a big scared boy. Neither said another thing the whole way to the campus lot.

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We need to get these cases moving, thought Deakins. He walked over to Sledge and Bishop. "Where are you on that sailboat?"

Bishop flipped open a folder and said, "The Coast Guard found a submerged boat fitting the general description of the missing one two miles out. They're arranging to send divers to check it out to see if it's the one gone missing. We'll know more next week."

"What about suspects? How far are we from closing this one?"

Sledge answered with, "We're looking at two guys who were seen on surveillance tapes nosing around a day before the boat left dock. They may be the perps or they were maintenance, we don't know."

"Well, find out! Go talk to people who may have seen them. Go pick them up. Check them out. You are down to this case and assisting with the art. You have time now. Move. I want these cases done with." Deakins rarely raised his voice. This was close.

Bishop and Sledge looked at each other. Neither said anything, but both were thinking the same thing. What is with him?

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"What are we going to do?" Tilley did not handle trouble well. "He's got our money, our credit cards, our ID. Jenny, we can't do anything, go anywhere, what are we going to do?"

"Shut up! Will you just shut up?" Jenese needed to think. That sonofabitch stole the art. Christ, he couldn't even report the car stolen with the art in the back. He needed to think this through.

The hotel room door pushed open and the housekeeper saw the two naked men. "Oh, I'm sorry, the door was open and the service tag was on the handle. I can come back." With eyes the size of saucers, she backed out and pulled the door shut.

I am going to kill that bastard when I get my hands on him, Jenese thought. Tilley sat on the edge of the bed. Jenny crossed and sat beside him. "Well, we have the room for," he checked his watch, "three more hours."

Tilley looked at him and licked his lips. Jenny never could refuse him.

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Deakins went back to his office and shut the door. He called Angie.

"It's me. How's Julie?"

"Hi sweetheart. She's in her room, can't you hear the music? How are things there?"

"The same. Look, I'm probably going to put in a full day here. I was hoping to be out by now. I'll be home by six. Think about doing something tonight. I want to do something with you and Julie – if she'll have us. Ok? Talk with her. Is she planning on staying in today. It's Saturday, I'm surprised she's still home. Have you checked to see if she's up there?"

"Jimmy, are you OK? You sound . . . anxious. Are you ok?" He got this way when he was bothered, he talked a lot.

Deakins put his head in his hand. He was anxious. He was being hassled by the brass, his best detective was nuts, his best detective's woman was probably pregnant, his second best pair of detectives seemed to be slacking off, he just handed off a major Federal assist case – yes, one could say he was anxious.

"I'm ok. I just want to be with you and Julie. Look, I'll see you at six. Call me if she's up to anything, ok?"

"I love you. We'll see you later."

"Love you, too. Bye." They hung up and Deakins opened the paperwork to transfer the uranium case back to the Feds.

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"You wan me to warm up tomma ditt pahgett? It look good, ditt pahgett. You wan tomm?" Estella was bent over, digging through the refrigerator.

"No, no spaghetti, Estella. Thanks. I'm not really hungry."

Estella shut the fridge and turned around. "You gotta eat tommting, Mitt. You till too fin. You gotta feed you and dah ba-," she stopped. She wouldn't speak again of the baby. She had seen a sadness around the event. She didn't know the kind of sadness, but Estella knew the joy of this new life had been snuffed out before it could brighten other lives. It was sad.

"I tell you what. I go en get utt a pidda. Down deh block, dey habb good pidda. You like lotta peprony, you like lotta --,"

"Estella, please. I'm not hungry. Thank you for being so kind. For looking after me, but I'm just not hungry. Please." Gleason stood and wrapped her arms around herself again. She just wanted to sleep. She was so tired. And her back ached a little. From too much lying down, she thought. But she was so tired.

Estella looked at Gleason. "Ok. Ditt plate already crean. You crean up fore I come, Mitt? It all crean. Notting for me to do."

"No, Bobby cleaned up."

"Why he do dat? Huh? He know it my job. He pay me to crean up."

"I don't know, Estella. He just did." She wanted to go lay down.

Estella looked at Gleason. "Ok. I go. You rett. Mitter Bobby, he be home toon? He look affer you. I be back nett week. I go. You rett, Mitt. I go now." She took her jacket from the knob on the front door, slipped it on and turned to look at Gleason again.

"Estella, thank you. For, for talking with me. I know you are mistaken about what you said, but thank you for talking with me. And for doing the clothes. I'll see you next week. Thank you."

"Ok, Mitt. Tay hi to Mitter Bobby, yet? Bye-bye."

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Eames turned into the drive beside Gleason's campus flat. Her Volvo sat in the spot she usually used. "Is Gleason going to keep her flat?" she asked Bobby and was immediately sorry she had, she was fearful of how he would respond. He really is on a hair trigger, she thought.

"No, in fact, she said she would call today to give notice."

Eames pulled into a spot two places away from the Volvo. Bobby sat for a moment, She knew he wanted to ask her something; she didn't say a word, she was afraid to.

"Eames." He didn't say anything else. She waited. "Eames, does a wom--," he just couldn't do it. He could not ask Eames. He would do what he always did; he would research it. He would go to the library and find out everything he could. Or, he would use Gleason's computer and look online.

Eames turned toward him, but didn't say anything.

"Uh, thanks, Eames, for the uh, for picking me up this morning and for dropping me here." Bobby didn't look at her as he said this. His hands were chopping like crazy. This wasn't easy for him, Alex knew he had more he wanted to say. She waited quietly. "Thanks, thanks too, for, for not, not pushing me and, uh, not freaking when I get, get, you know. . ."

"I know, Bobby, I know." She watched the relief flood into him.

"Ok. Well, have a good weekend. I'll see you Monday, ok?" Bobby opened the door and stepped out. He bent back down and looked in at his partner and smiled. She smiled back.

Bobby watched her back out and then he went to Gleason's car. He had her extra car key on a ring with the extra flat key. That ring was attached to his key ring. It made for a bunch of keys in his pocket, but it was a comforting bunch. Soon, there would just be her extra car key. He opened her Volvo, got in with his left leg still out and adjusted the seat all the way back. Gleason was tall, but he was taller. He tilted back the seat back as well.

Bobby thought of the places he wanted to stop. A drug store for sure. He'd stop and pick up something for lunch. Nothing with tomato sauce. Then home.

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Pregnancy tests, pregnancy tests. . . Bobby walked around the drug store looking. Where are they? He didn't want to ask. 'Feminine Hygiene,' that sounds right. He found the assortment. Bobby was the only male in the aisle. Two women, one at each end, looked over at him. He tried to look casual. Then he thought, so what?

He picked up one and read the box. Ninety-nine percent accurate. That's good. First urine stream of day. Ok. Earliest results. How early are we? Easy to read. We can read. Bobby looked at the shelves. There are so many kinds, he thought. One of the ladies walked his way and stopped beside him. He stepped aside and gave her a side-long glance.

She reached for one of the boxes, held it out to him, and said, "This is the best one." She looked up at him and smiled. Bobby took it with a smile and a whispered, "Thanks." She nodded and walked away. Bobby replaced the one he had been looking at.

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Estella walked slowly to the bus. She felt so sad for her Bobby. She loved him like a son. She loved Gleason like a daughter. She wanted them to be happy. This baby should make them happy. But it would not. Estella was afraid the grey she saw in Gleason's aura would spread. This baby might destroy what they had.

She sat on the bench at the stop and wondered about the grey she saw. She thought of all it might mean. Gleason's aura had been so pale whilst she was healing. Over the weeks, as Gleason recovered, her aura had brightened, the colors deepened. Bobby's aura had always been strong. Estella knew he was smart, _very_ smart, she could see all that silver woven throuh his colors. All of his colors were bright, deep, pure, his bands were wide and thick. Estella had never seen a love color like his, tinged in gold, it was! He loved Gleason so much.

The baby color had not shown itself until Gleason had nearly recovered. Looking back, Estella thought she had seen a glimmer of it, but it was so, so pale. Maybe she just imagined seeing it all those weeks ago. But she saw it for sure four weeks ago. It was so pretty, light green leading to soft yellow then pale white. A boy.

Estella saw the bus round the corner and she stood. She took her pass from her coat pocket. The bus sighed to a stop in front of her. Estella sighed with it and climbed aboard.


	40. Chapter 40

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Ch 40

"Hello . . .?"

Oh, she was sleeping; Bobby grimaced and said, "Hi, Honey, did I wake you?"

Gleason sighed softly and said, "It's ok, I have to get up anyway." She looked at the clock and groaned inwardly, two-thirty; she had slept the whole day. "Are you coming home soon?"

"Yes, Eames dropped me at your car so I'll bring it home. I'll bring up your things and you'll have something to wear. How do you feel?"

"I'm ok. I have to stop sleeping so much; my back hurts from lying down."

"Did you eat today?"

She hadn't, she had gone back to bed after Estella left, "I haven't been hungry."

"Well, do you want to go out or do you want me to bring you something?"

"It's up to you, Love. You decide."

"Ok. I'll get us something. Anything in particular?"

"Bread, lots of bread."

He smiled, "Ok, lots of bread. I'll be home in less than an hour. I love you."

"I love you, Love," she said.

Bobby headed to Magnolia's, a little place that sold whole dinners to go. He'd get them a nice dinner, with lots of bread. And no tomato sauce.

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Damn, Jenese would have to call Canvettelli. Thank goodness, Tilley had prepaid the room. They had showered, changed, checked out and now they stood in the lobby with their bags.

"Shit, he's not answering his cell," Jenese said to Tilley.

"What are we going to do? We are penniless, homeless. What are we going to do?" Tilley was at near panic.

"Will you calm down? I'll reach Canvettelli and he'll wire us some money. Don't worry. We will be ok. Now calm down."

Jenese dialed the gallery and Pat, the clerk of uncertain gender, answered elegantly, "Gal Larry Gallery, how may I help you?"

"Let me talk to Canvettelli," Jenese had always gotten the creeps from that Pat person.

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Just let me talk to him, will you?"

"I'll see if he is available. One moment please." Jenese heard soft, faggy music and cursed, his battery was running low and his charger was in the car.

"Who is this calling?" Canvettelli asked with attitude.

"It's me. Don't hang up. I need your help."

"Who is this?" Canvettelli knew exactly who it was. He was pissed at Jenese for ditching him and not answering his calls. So, now he needs me, thought Canvettelli, we'll see about that.

"Canvettelli, sweetheart, why didn't you answer my calls? I tried calling you and you wouldn't pick up. I'm in Baltimore and may have a buyer for the paintings. I need your help to make this happen."

"I'm listening."

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"Julie, Dad wants to do something with us tonight. Any ideas?" Angie was trying the positive approach.

Julie, dressed completely in black and wearing what looked like ten pounds of chain, thought about it. She could be a brat and snipe at her mom. Or, she could really freak her out and be sweet. "Ok, can we go to Parson's for dinner?" Parson's was a hip-hop place with loud, throbbing music, bright, throbbing lights, and over-priced, greasy, bopper fare.

Angie knew exactly what her youngest daughter was pulling. She smiled and said, "Can you just see your dad in Parson's, he'd have a stroke. How about something less, less . . ."

"Less stroke-inducing?" Julie smiled back.

"Yes, less stroke inducing. What about that place on Chambray near Lex, it has all kinds of food?"

Julie contemplated this. I need to make this work for me, she thought. "Well, if we go to that place, can we go to a movie after? And I get to pick?"

She is exhausting, thought Angie. "Ok, but remember, your dad is old and stroke prone. Let's not kill him off just yet, please? Go look at what's playing where and when, pick three and we all get to vote. Top vote wins? Fair?"

Julie was ready to whine, but reconsidered. She did get to pick the three choices. "When's Dad coming home?"

"He said by six. So, pick movies that start near eight, ok?"

Julie nodded and went upstairs to check movies online.

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Bobby was lucky and got a spot down the block from Magnolia's. He would get them some dinner and then head home. He was getting hungry.

"I need two dinners to go, please," Bobby said to the hostess/clerk. He looked at the day's options and decided on, "Lemon chicken breast with wild rice and steamed vegetables. You know what; give us two chicken breasts in each, Ok?"

"Certainly; would you like the full dinner with soup, salad and dessert?"

"Uh, yeah . . . minestrone and . . . Cesar salad with both, and . . . uh, a piece of carrot cake and . . . the giant brownie."

"This will be just a few minutes."

Bobby nodded. "Oh, what kind of bread comes with that?"

"Assorted rolls."

"Can I buy a dozen?"

"What ever you want, sir," she said with a smile.

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"Hey, it's me. Want to do something tonight?" Sledge wanted to see Alex.

"Edward. Sure, like what?"

"I don't know. Dinner, a movie, whatever you want. You decide. It doesn't matter to me. I just want to see you."

Alex considered this. Edward sounded different, calmer, serious. Alex heard a depth she hadn't noticed before. It was nice.

"Ok," she responded. "What time do you think you'll be done there?"

"I don't know. Bishop is still running Pangborn through the system. Nothing so far, but she's not done yet. I need to make some calls about the two guys seen on the dock tapes, that stolen sailboat. Deakins is in a rush all of a sudden. I want to be out of here by five, six o'clock. I'll come straight to your place. Think about what you want to do. I want to see you, Alex." This last part was quiet, full of feeling.

"Ok. I'll see you when you get here. Be careful, ok?" Alex said this slowly, she was thinking the whole time. She had never told him to be careful.

"Sure, later. Bye." Sledge hung up and thought a moment. I need to tell her how I feel.

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Alphonse headed to New York. He had friends there. The wallets had some cash, not much. The credit cards were hardly useful if he wanted to stay low. He used one to fill the tank and load up with mini mart groceries. He could be in Manhattan in several hours. He would call Davey and they would open up those cases in the back. Wonder what is in them, he thought. Something flat, pictures? Paintings? Whoa, if they were art, maybe they could unload them to some dealer. Davey would know about that.

Alphonse thought back to Jenese and Tilley. He thought about what those two had in each other. His whole life, Alphonse had looked for that kind of relationship. He'd tried the woman route, but he had learned early that you cannot be what you are not. How do you find that kind of, what, love? He had never found it. He wanted it. Maybe he could have it with Davey? No, Davey was just a whore. Davey would sleep with anyone. Crap, that's how Alphonse had met Davey, picked him up in a bar. Maybe he just was not supposed to find love. Sure would like to, though.

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Gleason ran the shower and set out clothes from those Estella had washed. The shower felt so good, Bobby's shower was better than the one at her flat – crap! – she was going to call today and give notice of vacating. She would do it when she got out of the shower. She washed her hair and stood under the shower for a long time. It felt good on her back.

Bobby parked up the block and slid his drugstore purchase in his jacket inside pocket. He took up the two bags of dinner first and set the bags on the table in the kitchen. He heard the heard the shower; hmmm, he thought with a smile and headed down the hall.

He opened the bathroom door quietly and stripped, piling his clothes in the sink. He pulled back the curtain a little and saw Gleason standing under the water, hugging herself, her eyes shut tight. "Honey, are you ok?"

"Bobby!" she startled. She looked at his bare chest, "Are you naked?"

Bobby grinned sheepishly, "Can I come in?"

Gleason smiled broadly and reached for him, "You can come anytime you are ready."

He stepped into the shower and embraced her. The water was just beginning to run cool when they finished with each other. "Now let's go do it for real in bed," Gleason said.

Bobby reached around her and shut off the water. "We need to eat. Did you eat at all today?" He stepped from the shower, grabbed a bath sheet from the narrow closet and wrapped it around her. "Did you?"

"I slept all day; I will not be able to sleep tonight." Bobby held her hand as she stepped from the shower. She used the ends of her sheet to wipe his chest. "Don't you want to go lay down naked with me and let me make you feel good?" She leaned into him. Bobby bent down, kissed her lightly, and said, "Yes, but not right now; later, when you can't sleep. Ok?"

"All right," Gleason pouted playfully. "But I'm holding you to it, buster. You better rest up; I've got plans for you." She smiled at him.

Bobby smiled back thinking, this is a side I never knew she had; and I like it. He wrapped his towel around his waist, picked up his clothes and stepped around into the bedroom. He tossed the clothes into the clothesbasket and dressed in fresh. He spotted the clothes Gleason had set out on the bed.

"Was Estella here today?" he asked Gleason as she came around the corner.

"Aye, she did the clothes. I had them all ready to do, but she got to them first. She didn't stay long as you had cleaned." Gleason didn't look at Bobby as she said this. She busied herself with getting dressed.

Bobby caught the change in her tone. "Is everything all right with Estella?"

Gleason finished dressing and unwrapped the towel from her head. "Aye, she's fine. We talked a bit and then she left. I've got to comb out this nest." She slipped past Bobby with a pat on his chest.

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"Well look at this," Bishop said, walking back from the printer. "Our Mr. Pangborn is wanted on an outstanding from Virginia. They will be glad to clear this one. I'll make the call."

Sledge sat and thought about Eames. He wanted to tell her how he felt. He wanted to know how she felt. It was good to be apart for a day or so. It had given him a chance to think about things.

Edward had talked with Linda about Alex. She had told him to be careful of work place romances. It would complicate things, she said. He told her he knew all of that, that didn't matter. Linda told Edward to be happy, be careful, don't sign anything and use protection. He laughed at that and remembered why he would always love Linda. He had even said that to her, that he would always love her. Linda said she knew that and that she would always love him, that's why she had never remarried. Sledge said 'me too.'

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"So, why is this the first time you are calling me? You are only calling because you need me. Right? Right? What happened, did some whore roll you? Take your wallet? I don't think I have time to talk with you now. Good bye"

"Wait! Wait! Sweetie, wait. I tried to call you. You are a very busy boy. I know that. That's why I didn't get angry when you never picked up. I have been thinking of you. How much I miss you. You'll help me with this deal, right? I mean you have a chuck of change coming when this is finished," Jenese was worried about his battery. This sonofabitch better pony up before this thing dies – or he will.

"I am busy. So, what do you want me to do?"

That's my boy. Jenese swore he would repay Canvettelli, with interest, out of his portion of the resale money. All Canvettelli had to do was wire him twenty-five hundred dollars.


	41. Chapter 41

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"All right, where on we on what?" Deakins had finished the paper work to be rid of the uranium case and he wanted to head home.

Bishop began, "Well, the second body at the scene, J. T. Pangborn, has an outstanding warrant from Virginia. I called them and told them the autopsy still had to be done. They said there was no rush, they are short handed this weekend and they'll fax the paperwork on Monday. They'll search for next of kin and oversee disposal of remains when Rodgers is done. Her assistant called and said he was going to remove the slugs from Pangborn and Navicky so that the stippling search can be done. The guys in the lab think it will be done tomorrow afternoon."

Deakins nodded and Bishop continued, "I talked with Larry downstairs in video and he said as soon as the DVDs come in from the storage owner, he'll digitize them. The vehicle from the scene is registered to Navicky, it arrived about two hours ago and the guys in the garage are going over it for prints and trace." Bishop finished and set that folder aside.

"Good, this one is moving at least. What else? How about you, what did you find out about that sailboat?" Deakins said to Sledge.

"No one at the dock is available to take a call on a Saturday. The case liaison at the Coast Guard, Sgt. Richard Camborne, is off today. Sorry, Captain, I could not reach anyone who would talk to me. The sailboat owner is coming in first thing Monday for an interview. He's bringing his lawyer and the lawyer for the insurance company."

"That's it? Did you track down the liaison? Did you find out where he is today? Did you drive out to the dock and see who was available to talk to? What, you rode in on your bicycle today? You don't have a vehicle to go out and interview anyone on a Saturday? No vehicles were available in the motor poll?" Deakins was tired of Sledge slacking off. Ok, he wasn't slacking off; he just, just didn't seem to be doing anything to move the sailboat to the solve list.

Sledge actually looked surprised and hurt. So, he did what he always did when he felt funny in a situation, he did something totally stupid.

"Well, there is one more thing." Deakins looked hopeful. "Bishop here said she wants to go home early."

She had been looking from Sledge to Deakins as Sledge updated the Captain. Her head snapped to look at her partner when he said the last bit.

Deakins looked at Bishop and she looked up at him with complete innocence. "Well, since it seems she did the lion's share of the work, today, I think she deserves to head out early. Good work today, Bishop."

She smiled and said, "Gee, thanks boss." Bishop started to close up her desk and Sledge sat watching, mouth open. He knew better than to say anything else. Deakins turned away and headed back to his office.

"You aren't really going home, are you?" Sledge asked his partner.

"Um, let me think . . . my boss said I did a good job today and said I could go home early. On a Saturday. Yep, I think I'm going home. What time is it?" She glanced at her watch, "Oh, look, it's twenty of three. Pretty early, I'd say."

Sledge sat up and put both hands on the desk top. He looked disgusted. "I cannot believe you are doing this."

"Edward, _you_ told the boss I wanted to leave – which I did not. Why don't you go ask him if you can leave, too? Oh, wait, no, that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Deakins seemed a little steamed about what you got, or didn't get, done today. Too bad, so sad. Say, since you're staying, how about starting the paperwork on the stippling, the vehicle inspection, and getting the DVDs digitized? You are so good at paperwork."

Edward sat listening to her, hating her for getting to go home early, for being a smart ass, for making him do all that crappy paperwork, and for every other reason she had ever pissed him off.

"Oh, stop it, already. Go home. Enjoy your night off. I'll see you bright and shiny tomorrow. You know, Bishop, you can be such a wise ass when you want to be." He turned to his computer and started filling in the stippling order.

"Bye, bye Sledge. Have fun. See you tomorrow."

"Bitch," he said under his breath. But he said it lovingly. Right.

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"Ok, my battery is going to die here any minute. You'll send the two and a half grand, right? Call me at the hotel desk, I gave you the number, do you have it? Good. Call me right back so we can decide where to send the money. Then I'll go get it and then I'll come to you in New York. Ok? Canvett--? Damn! My battery is dead."

Tillman stood watching and listening, chewing on his fingernails. "So, is he going to send the money? Do you think he will? How are we going to get it? Huh? We have no ID?" He was working himself up again.

"Calm down, he'll send it. Now, I want you to go wait around the corner on that bench. Take the bags and wait there for me. I'm going to speak to that lovely man behind the desk. I may be awhile, so don't panic. If you see me walk out of the lobby with him, do not panic. I'll be going to go get the cash. I will be back for you. Do not panic. Understand? I'll be back. Ok?"

Tilley listened to his partner with eyes wide, fingernails nearly chewed to the quick. "You'll come back, right? You're not going to ditch me?"

Jenese looked at his lover. He really loved this man. "Tilley, I will never ditch you. You know that. Now let's take this luggage over there and get you settled. Then I'm off to work."

Together they dragged the two bags to the stone bench on the side of the hotel. Jenese kissed his lover tenderly and walked back into the lobby.

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Bobby went back to the kitchen and set out their food. Gleason was in the bathroom combing out her hair; it was always a challenge after she washed it. She walked into the kitchen with her hair braided around her head. Bobby was taking the second bowl of soup from the microwave and set it at her place. The salads were on plates, dressing was in a small bowl, and they had water to drink.

"You know, you'd make someone a good wife," Gleason said, coming up behind him, wrapping her arms around, hands flat on his middle. Bobby turned in her arms and wanted to say something in response to her innocent comment. He wanted to say something about a wife. And a husband. He had thought of such things.

"You think so, huh?" he asked, kissing her lightly. "Sit down and eat your soup before it gets cold." He reached for the heaping bread basket on the counter and set it on the table. "Now, eat some soup before you fill up on bread."

She smiled up at him and said facetiously, "Yes, Dad." They both stopped dead. Gleason couldn't believe what she had said. She didn't breathe; her eyes went to her lap. Bobby stood frozen with the butter tub midway to the table. The silence was deafening and seemed to last forever.

He recovered first. "Uh, do you, do you want a soda? Should I make tea?" He couldn't look at her.

Gleason sat with her head down, "No, nothing. Water is fine." It was barely a whisper.

Bobby sat down and cleared his throat. "Uh, I hope this is ok." He reached over and took her hand.

Gleason looked up, stared into his eyes and nodded. Then she reached for a roll.

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"Ok, how about these three choices?" Julie walked into the kitchen holding two sheets of paper. "They're all in the same plex, the one just around from that place where we're going for dinner. And, each one starts between seven forty-five and eight ten. Ready?"

Angie was delighted their youngest daughter was being so . . . so nice. "Ok, whatcha got?"

"Well, just listen to each one before you say anything, Ok?" Julie looked at her mom. Angie nodded.

"Ok, the first one is," Julie read from the papers, "'Orgasmic Dreams – a sensual exploration of a young couple's initiation to carnal awareness. A visually stunning journey of youthful erotic awakenings. Winner of the Patagonia Film Exquisite Award.' That starts at seven forty-five. Or, 'University Chain Saw Killings, Two – another tense adventure of brutal campus slashings. No fraternity or sorority ever had a rush like this. Warning: explicit carnage and high stakes suspense.' That one starts at eight-ten. Or, 'Belemy Hotel – starring Liam Carnahan and Megan Trumpett. The movie with an Oscar buzz. A fast paced action mystery involving a front desk clerk with a hidden past, an undercover police officer with great legs, and a suspected terrorist. A wild ride with wilder twists and turns.' That one starts at seven fifty-five." Julie looked up at her mom. "So, whatcha think?"

Angie had to smile. What a corker. "I think I'm going to wait for your dad to come home. Let's see which one he picks."

"I bet he goes for the sex flick!" The phone rang and Julie, shouted, "I'll get it!" and dashed to the phone in the hall.

Angie just smiled, sex flick – wouldn't she be surprised if he did?

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Alphonse drove on with the radio blasting. He would call Davey when he got into the city. He regretted not taking the cell phone that was lying next to the keys this morning. He could have used it to make a few calls along the way. It didn't really matter.

He'd stopped at a truck stop and counted the cash. Not quite three grand total. It was more than he thought when he had first looked through the two wallets, however. Jenese's wallet contained a slew of credit cards, and not much else. Tillman's wallet had only two credit cards, a picture of Tillman and Jenese looking cozy together in front of some trees, and some other bits of nothing.

Alphonse kept looking at the photo. Tilley and Jenese looked young in it. They had been together for a long time. He really admired those two, having found each other, staying together. Heck, some heteros never got what they had. Alphonse knew he wasn't getting any younger. He knew his chances of finding a loving relationship were slipping. He sighed and turned down the radio. Who was he kidding, people like him didn't find love. They found trouble.

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Bobby and Gleason finished the soup, salad and part of the chicken, rice and vegetables. They decided to keep the rest for later. They saved their desserts as well. Gleason had eaten three rolls and Bobby had had one.

"I'll clean up," Gleason told him. "You go sit down, you must be tired."

Bobby helped her clear the table. "I'll go down to the car and bring up your clothes, how's that?" He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Gleason backed up against him and relished in his warmth. She tilted her head back against his right shoulder. Bobby kissed the left side of her neck, he sucked gently. Gleason closed her eyes and pressed her bottom against his crotch. Bobby's left hand moved under her top and cupped her right breast, his thumb stroked her nipple. He felt her breathing quicken and heard her moan softly. He began to stiffen.

Bobby's hand left her breast and slid down inside the front of her pants, under her panties. His middle finger found her clit and rubbed. Gleason gasped and opened her legs. He felt her wetness. His right hand went up under her shirt and took her left breast, his thumb doing what it does best. "Unh," she breathed. He stiffened further.

Gleason began to move against his bulge behind her and his hand before her. Bobby's breath came faster and he sucked her neck in earnest. He pinched and pulled her nipple, now a hard little stone. "Bobby, please," she whispered.

Suddenly, Bobby undid her pants and pushed them down; he spun her around and lifted her onto the edge of the table, pulling her pants to the floor. In one move, his pants were open and he pulled himself out. Gleason opened her legs and leaned back, her hands behind her on the table top. Bobby stepped to her and she slid forward, wrapping her legs around him. He set himself against her slit and pushed hard. "Ungh!" he growled and began to pump.

Gleason watched him. His hands held her hips as he drove his cock in and out of her opening. His head hung down, eyes closed, mouth open, panting. She watched him, heard him move toward the edge. She looked down and saw his length – thick, dark and wet with her juice – slide in and out. She felt herself begin. Watching him pushed her toward the edge faster. He was close; his sounds were deep and quick. Oh, she felt him, in and out, in and out; he pumped faster, harder. Yes, yes, oh God, there, right there! Suddenly he pushed hard and stayed, his fingers gripping her ass. Bobby's head flew up and he came, jerking his cum up into her.

That was all she needed. She pushed against him and took nearly his whole length, squeezing him all the way up, feeling him jerk inside. Oh God, good, good! Unnngh! She bent forward, her head against his chest as she came. Bobby settled slowly, breathing hard. Gleason came once and then again. He held her tight, still inside her. She felt him begin to soften and she leaned back.

"Good?" he asked with a small smile.


	42. Chapter 42

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Bobby brought up the two plastic bags containing her clothes. He was struck by how little she had. Her whole wardrobe fit into two medium size trash bags.

He set them on the bed and Gleason began to sort through them. She felt foolish having to do this. She had filled the bags in a rush to leave him.

"What can I do to help you?" Bobby asked her, watching her stack her things.

"Here, you can put these things in the top drawer," she said, handing him a short stack of panties and undershirts. He took them and set them inside the chest he had emptied for her.

"Put these in the second drawer," and she handed him a stack of six plain cotton tops. He smiled taking the clothes, this is nice, he thought.

"And, you can put these in next drawer," giving him two pairs of jeans and two pair of cotton slacks.

"Oh, these get hung up," she said, pulling out two shells and two jackets.

"Here, I'll do that," he stepped to the closet and reached for several hangers.

Gleason opened the fourth drawer and placed her one nightgown and her green pajamas that Estella had washed. She pulled open the bottom drawer for her socks and saw the book sitting in the bottom. She lifted it out and turned to Bobby who hung the last item and was shutting the closet door. He turned and saw her holding the brown paper wrapped package.

"What's that?" he asked.

She smiled and said, "A gift. For you."

He looked from her to the package and back to her face. "What is it?"

"A surprise."

"Tell me."

"Then it won't be a surprise," she said with a big smile.

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Deakins looked at the clock on his desk. Five twenty-seven. That's it, let's go home. He closed up his desk and walked over to Sledge who apparently thought he had to stay until the cleaning crew showed up. Everyone else was heading out.

"Go home," he said to the big detective as he walked to the lifts.

Sledge looked up from his computer and nodded. Then he stood and walked to the printer to retrieve the task forms he'd prepared. He returned to his desk, shut down his computer and lifted the phone.

"Hon, it's me. I'm on my way out. Did you decide what you want to do tonight?"

"I don't know. Do you want to do something old fashioned, like go to a movie?" Eames was kind of excited. This is like a real date.

"Whatever you want to do. A movie is fine. You pick one. We can get dinner afterward. I just want to see you, be with you. I'll be at your place in about half an hour or so. Ok?"

"Ok, I'll see you when you get here. Be careful." There, she said it again! Ha, wonder what that means. She went to see what to wear.

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They went to the sofa and sat. Bobby untied the string and removed the brown paper. He lifted the book and turned it over. He looked at the cover, rubbed his fingers over the title, _Erotische Poesie_, embossed into the old leather and looked at Gleason. The look on his face was priceless. He was stunned, speechless.

"Open it," said Gleason.

He opened the book and saw the first edition notation in the boilerplate and the signature and date on the title page. He ran his thumb along the deckled edges of the pages. He smoothed his and over the marbleized end papers.

"Gleason. Do you know what this is?"

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"Honey, this is Reuben Lesky's _Erotische Poesie_. A signed first edition. In the original German. Gleason, where did you ever find a copy?"

"In a little bookstore near the campus in Evanston." She had never seen him like this. She wondered how rarely he'd been given gifts. "You can read it, right?"

"Yes, I read, write, speak and understand German. Gleason, I cannot believe you bought this. I, I . . . I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. Read to me."

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"Hi, sweetheart," Deakins said as he hung up is jacket on the hook inside the kitchen door. He kissed Angie on the cheek and continued, "How are things?"

"She's been really sweet today. She's picked out three movies for us to choose from, for after dinner. How about we eat at that place on Chambray near Lex? She wanted to go to Parson's."

"What's 'Parson's'?" he asked.

"No place you would want to be," his wife answered, smiling.

"Let me go wash up and then we'll go. Is she in her room?"

"I think so."

Deakins went to the bathroom and washed his face and brushed his teeth. He went into their bedroom and changed his shirt. Then he stopped outside Julie's bedroom door. He hesitated and then knocked.

"Friend or foe?" came a girl's voice from the other side.

"It depends on what you've done. Can I come in?"

Julie opened the door and said, "Did Mom show you my three choices? Which one do you vote for? I bet I know which one."

"Hello, to you, too. Yes, I had a good day. How was yours? No, I haven't seen the choices. Why don't you tell me?"

"Ok, one is a slasher flick, one is a mystery flick and one is a _sex_ flick. I bet you pick the sex flick!" Julie stepped from her room and started down the hall.

"That depends on what kind of sex it is," Deakins said to his daughter's back.

Julie stopped, turned and looked at her dad. Deakins continued, "If it's your old, run of the mill woo-'em, hump-'em, dump-'em, I am not interested. But, if it something I might learn from, something that will get your mother all hot and bothered, then I may be interested."

Julie looked at her dad as if he had two heads, "That is just disgusting! I'm telling Mom what you said."

Deakins smiled and followed his daughter to the kitchen.

"Mom, do you know what Dad said?"

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Bobby leaned over and kissed Gleason. His right hand lay against her neck, his tongue just touched her lips. He pulled away and looked into her eyes. "Thank you. Honey, thank you." He kissed her again lightly.

Gleason loved him at that moment like she never had before. She felt such warmth inside. She knew she had pleased him. "Hold me and read to me. Let me hear you read in German."

Bobby sat back on the sofa and held out his arms to Gleason. "You remember what happened the last time we sat here?" he said to her with a smile.

Gleason lay back on his lap and snuggled up close. "I certainly do. Can you imagine what will happen this time with you reading dirty poetry to me?" she said with a smile.

"But you won't know what I'm saying."

"I figure you'll tell me one way or another. Find something nice and read to me."

Bobby opened the book, skimmed a few pages and said, "This is a nice one." Holding the book in his left hand, his right hand resting on her tum, he read slowly, with feeling, his voice deep.

„_lhr Körper, lhr Verstand, lhre Seele_

_mein Körpe trägt lhren Körper ein_

_mein Verstand trifft lhrn Verstand_

_mein Seele wird lhre Seele_

_meine Liebe meldet Sie, _

_ich stechen lhnen, _

_wrid sind eine an"_

Gleason watched him read, she felt his voice in his chest beside her head. She watched his eyes move across the text, his lips form the words. He finished and his eyes met hers. They didn't speak for a long minute.

"I love the way you read, Bobby," Gleason whispered. Bobby smiled shyly at her. "What does it say, what you read, what does it say?"

Bobby's head tilted to the left, he read, with the same, deep, slow voice,

"your body, your mind, your soul

my body enters your body

my mind meets your mind

my soul becomes your soul

my love enters you,

I become you

we are one"

Gleason looked up at him and he looked back at her. She reached up her hand and laid it upon his check as she had before. She stroked his jaw with her thumb, as he had stroked her nipple with his thumb. His silvered whiskers were brush tips against her skin. Bobby leaned his head into her hand.

The silence between them spoke volumes of love. Finally, Gleason whispered, "I love you. I love you. Forever."

Bobby leaned down and kissed her softly. "Let's go to bed," he whispered.

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Tilley sat on the bench outside the hotel, watching people come and go. Families, businessmen, women who he was sure were high class hookers. The shadows moved across the parking lot, across the lawn, the sun moved behind the buildings across the busy street in front of the hotel. Time passed slowly.

He's going to get the money. He'll be back. He won't leave me. He'll come back. He said he would. He loves me. He'll be back.

For whatever reason, Palmer Tillman had always had a fear of being abandoned. He was like this as a kid. Field trips in school were always a nightmare for him; he just knew his teacher was going to leave him somewhere. So, he stayed by the teacher's side, holding her hand. The other kids had called him a sissy, teacher's pet. He didn't care. He was a sissy and didn't mind it one bit.

Now Tilley sat, wondering if Jenny was going to come back. He thought about what he would do if it got dark, and cold. He'd have to prostitute himself. He'd probably be beaten by some brute who would fuck him up the ass and then beat him bloody and leave him on the street or in an alley where he wouldn't be found.

Tilley began to cry softly. Jenny, he mewled.

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"It's me," Sledge said into the box. At the buzz, he pulled on the door and walked up to Eames' flat. She met him at the door.

"Hi –," she started when Sledge took her and kissed her hard. He pushed her into the flat and kicked shut the door behind him. Eames returned the kiss with the same passion, but then pushed him away. "Edward! Jesus! What is with you?"

Alex stepped back and he said, "I missed you. We need to talk. Come here, sit down." He took her hand and led her to the sofa. "Here, sit."

She did as he asked, looking at him suspiciously, "Edward, what's wrong? Why do we have to talk? About what?"

Edward looked at her steadily, took her hands and said, "I love you."

Alex knew he wasn't kidding. He wasn't being a smart ass. He had never looked at her like this before. Hell, he'd never looked at her this long before. "Edward, I . . . I," Alex stumbled.

"Don't say anything," Edward told her. "Not yet. I want you to think about this. I know it is sudden, but Alex, I have loved you since I first saw you." His voice was deep, assured. "These weeks together have confirmed it for me. I love you."

Eames was stunned. She figured Edward liked her; they had a good time together. The sex was incredible. She liked him, more than just a fuck-buddy, too. But _love_? This was a lot to consider.

"I just wanted you to know where I was on this. I wanted to be honest. I want to know where you are, but not yet. When you are ready, you tell me how you feel. Think about us, Alex. I love you." Edward leaned in and kissed her tenderly, like he never had before.

"Now, did you find us a movie?"

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Bobby took Gleason by the hand to their bedroom. He pulled back the covers and they began to undress. He climbed in and so did she. Bobby laid on his left side and Gleason lay on her back beside him. His hand lay lightly on her belly, stroking softly. They didn't speak. Gleason turned onto her left side and snuggled close into Bobby's curve.

Slowly, they fell asleep.


	43. Chapter 43

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The Deakins family finished their dinners and headed to the movie plex down the block. Jim and Angie walked hand-in-hand while Julie walked a head of them as she had when she was little. They could keep an eye on her this way.

"Dad, which movie did you choose?" Julie said, turning around, walking backward.

"I haven't decided yet," he looked at his wife and said, "Which one are you thinking?"

Julie continued to walk backward. "Julie, turn around or walk beside us. You're going to run into someone," Angie scolded her daughter who turned around with attitude. "I don't know, sex, slash, or crime – some choice, huh?"

"Julie, which one do you want to see?" Deakins called.

Julie stopped, waited for them to catch up and then said, "Sex, I want to see the sex one. I can get in with you, even though it is PG-17. Right?"

"You want to see a sex movie sitting between your old mum and dad?" Deakins asked her.

"I am _not_ sitting with you!"

"Oh, yes you are, young lady. Right here, between your mother and me."

"_Dad!_ Mum, make him let me sit somewhere else. Please?"

"Julie, I think you should sit with us, too. It will be nice, our little family watching a sex flick together. We can discuss it afterward. You know, what you learned, what your dad learned. What I want your dad to try first. It will be nice."

"_Oh, My, God!_ I can_not_ believe you two are my parents." Julie strode ahead dramatically.

Deakins squeezed his wife's hand and they shared a silent smile.

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"Ok, here, five hundred dollars. Now, let's go get my friend and see what other fun we can have." Jenese and Kyle, the hotel desk manager, had had a quick little tryst in the back seat of Kyle's car. Then they drove to the check 'n cash the clerk he had suggested. Canvettelli had wired the money to Kyle so he could accept it as he had identification. Jenese had promised him five hundred dollars to help him and Tilley get situated.

Kyle was turning out to be a great find. He could lick and suck like no one else Jenny had had. He cooperated with the money and drove Jenny to get it; and, he took Jenny to the train station for two tickets to New York tomorrow morning; and, he was going to get Jenny and Tilley a complementary room for tonight – he would be joining them – and, he would take them to the train in the morning. What a nice guy! Almost too good to be true.

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Eames and Sledge decided to see a movie at the movie plex on Lexington near Chambray. They didn't know what they wanted to see and stood in the lobby, looking up at the choices.

"Want to see something dirty?" Sledge asked.

"They don't show that kind of movie here," Eames said with exasperation.

"How about that one, 'Orgasmic Dreams'? Sounds good to me," he replied.

"Whatever," Eames was preoccupied with Sledge's profession of love. She still didn't know what to make of it. She had noticed a change in him lately, a good change. Or had she changed? Maybe they both had changed and it was supposed to be.

Maybe she loved Edward. No, no way! I like him, she thought, a lot, but I don't think I love him. Not yet. What! – _not yet_? What the hell does that mean?

"Hon? Alex."

"What? I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes. I was just thinking; that's all."

"I've got you all flustered, don't I?" Sledge gave her a hug and he felt grand. "Do you want extra butter on the popcorn?"

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"Ok, how about this," Julie suggested, "We go in together, but I don't sit between you. I sit somewhere else, where you can see me, because I know that is important to you, because you don't trust me and all that. How about if I sit in the row in front of you? You can see me but I can't see you. Deal?"

"That sounds fair, right Mum?" he said to his wife.

"All right. You'll stay put, though, won't you, whilst your dad and I are making out in the row behind you. Ok?" Angie said with a straight face.

Julie groaned and rolled her eyes. "Can I have a large bucket of popcorn?"

The three got in the concession line.

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Rain slashed the corn, puddles formed on the road ahead of her. Lightening lit the sky. The wind dragged its fingers through her hair as the rain turned it into red rags. It was cold and she was so wet, so tired. Where are they?

The dry, scratchy corn bent in the wind, brown and wrinkled leaves flew by. She couldn't see beyond the length of her arm. Lightening flashed and sizzled into a tree up ahead, cracking it onto the road. She would have to go around it.

She climbed over the rail fence and dropped into the field. Her feet sank into the mud. She began walking. The mud sucked at her foot falls and she walked as though weights were attached to her legs. She started down the knoll and began to slip. Another flash of lightening. There! She caught a glimpse of someone. Two men. She prayed for another flash.

Gleason slipped and fell, hurting her back. She struggled up, trying to keep her feet under her. Oh, her back hurt. Flash! That's Bobby and Gavin! Standing close, Gavin had his hand on Bobby's shoulder. She was walking and walking but not getting any closer, she thought.

Flash! Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no. That was not what she saw. No. She saw Bobby holding the limp body of their little boy. Bobby was crying. No, no. Her little boy! What's wrong with him? Bobby! She tried to run, her back hurt, Bobby, Christian! Her son had her father's name, Christian.

Gleason moaned and whimpered in her sleep and drew up her knees. Bobby heard her and turned over to look at her. She settled and he pulled the covers up over her shoulder, then he lay back down.

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"Jimmy, isn't that Alex over there?" Angie recognized Eames from the back. She was standing under the arm of a tall, broad man.

"Where?" Deakins looked right, scanned the line and saw one half of his best pair of detectives standing with . . . oh dear God, that's Sledge.

"Who is she with? That's not Bobby Goren, is it?"

"No, no. That's Edward Sledge. I never would have put those two together." Jimmy Deakins always hated these kinds of encounters. He always felt so awkward. He never knew what to say. It was like being in two different worlds – the work world and the life world. He was fine with his people in the work world; but out here, he just didn't know how to be with his people. "Maybe they won't see us."

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It started to rain just outside Melbourne, New York. In fact it was more than rain, it was an absolute torrent. The wipers were not keeping up with the onslaught. Alphonse could barely see. Everyone was slowing down. He kept his eyes on the ass end of the semi in front of him. He intended to follow the truck's tail lights. A few more hours, he said to himself.

Alphonse wanted to get to a payphone to call Davey. He'd go to Davey's place and they'd open up those crates in the back. He would keep his little stash of found money his little secret. Davey was known to have sticky fingers – and not in the good way.

He turned up the radio again and his head and fingers kept time with the tune. Then, suddenly, he couldn't quite understand what that huge bang was behind him. Nor could he understand why he was suddenly speeding into the back end of that semi. Nor could he understand why the glass was crackling in front of him. Nor could he understand why he could see himself inside the crushed vehicle from way up here.

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The Deakins family stood together, munching popcorn, sipping soda, waiting for the movie to open up.

Sledge and Eames stood together, Sledge munching popcorn, sipping soda, waiting for the movie to open up.

"Hey, isn't that Alex, Dad? Hey, Alex! Hi! Dad, look it's Alex." Julie started over to greet the tiny detective. Deakins could have killed her. Alex and Sledge both had that deer in the headlight look.

Oh great, the three thought simultaneously.

"Hi, Alex. Who's your date? Do you work for my dad, too?" Julie might have been fifteen years old, but sometimes she acted like she was eight – a bold eight.

"Hi, Julie. This is Edward Sledge, another detective in your dad's department." Alex said to the girl, looking for her boss. Oh great, here they come, she thought.

"Hi," Julie said to Edward.

"Yeah, hi," he returned.

"Well, I see you finally got out of there tonight, Sledge." Deakins said.

Angie smiled and nodded to the pair. "Julie, come over here; stand with me. Let your father talk."

"Uh, yeah, I left shortly after you did."

The tension could have been bottled and would have fed a third world nation for months. No one knew what to say, no one knew where to look. Thank goodness Sledge had dropped his arm from around Eames when he started in on the popcorn. It could just be two work buddies out to see a movie. Right; just two work buddies.

"We're going to see the sex movie, which one are you guys going to see?" Julie had no boundaries. Deakins reddened, he couldn't help it. He would kill his daughter later and spend the rest of his life in prison; he didn't care.

"Oh, yeah? We'll what do you know? So are we," Sledge said, noticing his boss's change of color. "I've heard it's pretty good. Kind of an art film. Everything is done tastefully." He was tempted to make a remark about the 'tastefully' part but thought better of it.

"Yeah, I know," said Julie, "it won some kind of paternity award or something. Right Mum?"

"It won the Patagonia Award or some such thing, not 'paternity,' Julie." Angie rolled her eyes as if to say whose child is this anyway?

Deakins continued to die, right there. Thank God, the line started to move. They all trooped down the corridor to the theatre together. Once inside, Eames and Sledge went one way, and the Deakins clan went another. Julie scampered into the row ahead of her parents and kept turning around, looking for Eames and Sledge.

"Julie, stop gawking," Deakins said to his daughter.

She spotted the couple, "There they are!" and she waved. Eames returned the wave weakly.

"I cannot believe this," Eames said. Sledge put his arm around her, his other hand digging into the bucket on her lap.

"Ha, this is great. I'm glad we're up here. We can see what they do. I bet Ange feels him up during the dirty parts."

"Jesus Christ, Edward. You know, sometimes you have absolutely no class." Eames was honestly disgusted.

"Oh, come on. You're gonna feel me up, right? I'm counting on it."

This is the man who loves me, she thought. Eames had a huge reality check. He's a boor! But, he was right, she planned on feeling what he had, getting him ready for later. She had missed her man, all right.

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Bobby slept lightly after he heard Gleason whimper in her sleep. She moaned again later and he turned once more. She had turned over and was facing him. He saw her grimace and pull up her legs. He wondered what she was dreaming watching her eyes move under her lids.

Bobby turned over and faced her, watching her sleep. She is beautiful, he thought. He carefully smoothed hair from her face and she moved against his hand. God he loved her. Gleason grimaced again and moaned, shifting her legs. Bobby wondered if she was dreaming or hurting. He pulled up the cover over her shoulder. She settled.

He looked at the clock, nine forty-nine. He got up, slipped into his jeans and went down the hall.

He got himself a glass of orange juice and snagged a roll from the bag. He ate it without butter, just a bit remained and he saved it for Gleason. Then he got her lap top and his portfolio and moved to the far corner of the sofa. He opened up the computer, logged on and searched for information about pregnancy. His portfolio was open on the cushion beside him. We need to get a printer, he thought.

So far, Gleason had just about every one of the symptoms. Bobby made notes and thought about each one. Throwing up in the morning – oh yeah. Craving – she's been crazy for bread. Increased sex drive – she's horny, all right. Frequent urination – yep, she gets up in the night to go; Bobby knew every time she left the bed and he waited until she returned beside him before he went back to sleep. Sensitivity to some smells – tomato sauce and coffee; what else, I wonder. Imagined olfactory sensations from scent free objects – huh, Eames said she could smell moonbeams. Enlarged breasts – thought so; although, they didn't seem to be tender or sore like some women experience. Missed periods – don't know, she's never had a period since she's lived here, not that I know of.

Bobby went from site to site; reading, learning. He looked at embryonic development. He learned about hormonal changes and their subsequent behavioral changes; he wanted to know what was coming. From sites about pregnancy and gestation, prenatal health, nutrition and exercise, he went to sites about labor and delivery.

At some point, he stopped taking notes and just read. He was fascinated. He had no idea what the female body was capable of doing. He thought of Eames, what she had done for her sister and brother-in-law. He thought of Gleason doing this. His _mum_ did this, twice! His heart warmed for all women.

He also looked at sites about genetic transference of psychotic mental illnesses. He wanted to know if this child could develop schizophrenia. Everything he read was inconclusive. The general thinking was – it was likely hereditary, but the specific generational transfer was uncertain. Bottom line, if it was in the familial genetic pool, some offspring, at some point, was going to have it. This made Bobby uneasy.

"Hi," said Gleason softly. She was wrapped in her green throw.

Bobby's head snapped up and he looked at her. He shut the lid to the laptop and set it aside. He closed his portfolio and stood up, moving to her. "Hi, Sweetheart. How do you feel?" He gathered her in his arms. She leaned into him.

"What are you doing?" she said against his chest.

"Nothing. Just playing till you woke up. Are you hungry?" He held her away and looked at her. The left side of her face bore wrinkles from her pillow and her eyes were slightly puffy from sleep. He bent down and kissed her softly. She has our child inside her, he thought. Oh God. He pulled her toward him again and held her tighter.


	44. Chapter 44

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Ch 44

Red, white and blue lights flashed in the rainy night, making it appear as though diamonds, rubies and sapphires fell from the sky. Flares sputtered and smoked on the wet ground, fighting to stay lit. Seven cars and two tractor-trailers lay in a long, mangled heap. They were still extricating the dead, searching for the living.

Alphonse watched, floating above the scene. He noticed several other people along side him, watching the slow, sad action below. No one said anything. No one seemed bothered that they were floating up here, not being rained on, not having to hold on to anything, not feeling afraid of falling. They watched, floating. After a bit, one by one, each of the others turned away and moved over there, toward that light. Alphonse watched, waiting, wondering. Finally, he heard his name and he headed over, into the light.

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The movie ended and the Deakins family made their way to the exit. Sledge and Eames waited until the boss left. Deakins, his wife and daughter walked back to their car, parked at the lot near the restaurant. Sledge hailed a cab outside the plex.

On the way home, both the family and the couple discussed the movie they had just watched. Angie, Julie, and Sledge had hoped for more flesh and between-the-sheets action. Jimmy and Eames were glad there was not more. Both Sledge and Angie knew they would be making their own between-the-sheets action tonight. They both smiled, thinking ahead of what they would do.

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Sledge and Eames went to a quiet little place for dinner. He was starved and Eames wasn't. She never was after eating popcorn; it seemed to swell in her stomach. She ordered anyway; he'll eat it, she thought.

"So, what do you think it means, the boss knowing about us?" Sledge asked her, around bites.

"I don't know. It's going to be weird now. Knowing he knows. It adds a whole other layer."

"Well, it's not a big deal, Goren knows, too."

"What! You told Bobby! Edward, why in the world –"

Sledge swallowed and said, "Whoa, Nellie. I didn't tell him. He figured it out. You know how he is. He got all Sherlock whilst you and I were talking and he figured it out. He's a freak that way, always sniffing out things."

That's just great – Bobby, now Deakins, oh and Bishop knows, too. "This changes everything, Edward. Debriefings are going to be so weird now." He chewed on.

Bobby will be ok with the information, she thought. It's just another fact to him. Bishop has been cool so far. She'll be good about it. Deakins, well he's the one Eames didn't know about. He'll probably not want to think about it. Who else knows, she wondered. Heck, Logan and his new partner, Freckles, probably know, too.

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Deakins and Angie kissed Julie goodnight and locked up. Angie took extra time in the bathroom. She brushed her hair and spritzed on scent. She had plans.

Deakins thought about Sledge and Eames. Never would have put those two together, he thought. Man, this is really going to screw up the dynamic in the bullpen. Debriefings are going to be awkward, stilted. This better not affect the solve rate. Jimmy changed and pulled on his flannel pajama bottoms.

"Oh, no you don't, Mister," Angie said when she spotted Jimmy's plaid clad legs sweeping under the covers.

"What?" he asked, looking at her questioningly.

"Huh, uh, you take off those bottoms. You are going to pleasure your woman."

Jimmy Deakins fell back onto his pillow with a smile.

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Bobby and Gleason sat at the kitchen table, Bobby made a pot of tea and Gleason sat eating the last roll. "We need to get more butter," she said, scrapping the last of it from the sides of the tub.

Bobby smiled and said, "Tomorrow. In the morning, we don't we go get a nice big breakfast and then get groceries?"

Gleason nodded and pulled apart the last piece of the roll. She sat up, her back hurt, low, right above her bottom. Like when she was going to start her period. See, she was right – she knew she wasn't pregnant. Need to get some things tomorrow, she said to herself.

We need to talk, he thought. He got up and went to the closet for the pregnancy test in his jacket.

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Kyle turned out to be quite the limber lad. My, my, what that boy could do. Tilley, especially, enjoyed Kylie. Jenese enjoyed watching Tilley enjoy himself. They tumbled and treated each other with strokes and pokes, pulls and pinches, licks and sucks.

Finally, they quit fooling with each other's parts and ordered room service, Kylie's treat. They pulled on pants before it arrived and pulled them off after it did. When they finished dinner, they ordered up a movie, a sex movie – again Kylie's treat. The movie was a disappointment however, all guys and gals doing it every which way.

With nothing left to do, they did each other. Again. And again. Then again. Oh, the limber Kylie!

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"What's that?" Gleason asked.

"Honey, uh, this, this is a –,"

Gleason took the box from his hand, looked at it and then looked up at him. Neither said anything. She handed it back to him and he took it. Gleason stood and walked back to the bedroom. She lay down on her side of the bed and pulled up her green throw.

Oh, boy, thought Bobby. "Honey," he said, starting down the hall.

He saw her lying on her side, away from him. "Sweetheart, we need to do this. Gleason?" He went around the bed and sat beside her. She would not look at him. He put his left hand on her hip. "Honey, we need to do this," he said softly. "Ok? The first time you pee in the morning, we need to do this."

Gleason lay there, not looking at him. I will not. I am not. I am not. No. No. I am not. Bobby felt her begin to shiver; he watched it escalate. "Honey, talk to me. Gleason, look at me. Sweetheart. . ."

Gleason did not want to cry. She would not cry. If she cried, it would mean she was afraid it might be true. Her eyes filled. Her right hand went to her face and she began to cry in earnest.

"Oh, honey," Bobby's heart broke seeing her cry. "Gleason it will be ok. No matter what it says, it will be ok." He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. He got up off the bed and went into the bathroom. He set the box on top of the tank. She would see it when she lifted the lid.

Bobby returned from the bathroom, sat beside her and said, "Gleason, sit up. We have to talk about this. Come on. Sit up." He pulled off her throw and slid his hand under her upper right arm. "Honey, please."

Reluctantly, Gleason sat up, crossed her legs and pushed the stray hair from her face. She heaved a huge sigh and reached for her throw. Bobby took it and wrapped it around her. She took the ends and hugged it closed. She would not look at him.

"Gleason, when was your last period?"

She wouldn't look at him and she didn't answer. Bobby had a flash of heat, red rushed into his vision. His hands clenched and he gritted his teeth. Don't! he shouted to himself. DO NOT! He snapped his head to the right, away from her, squeezed shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Calm, just calm down. He sat like that for a long moment. When he looked back at Gleason, he saw her staring at him. She looked afraid.

"Honey . . . Gleason. Please talk to me. We need to . . ."

"I am not pregnant. I cannot be pregnant. I will not be pregnant. I'm not. No."

He didn't know what to say. He recognized the denial. "Gleason –,"

Gleason yelled, "No! Bobby, I won't have a baby! I can't. I won't! Don't you understand? I cannot have a baby. Put it out of your mind. I am not pregnant! There is no baby! Now let's leave it alone. Leave me alone." Until this moment, Gleason had never raised her voice to him. She had never had reason to.

Bobby was at a loss. He looked at her. What do I say? Why is she so adamant? "Honey, why? Why don't you want a baby? Tell me," he spoke softly, tenderly.

Gleason looked away; she swung her head up, looking at the ceiling. Tell him everything. Be honest. He loves you. It won't matter. He's not Gavin. Without looking at him, Gleason said softly, "I cannot be a mother. I don't know how. I don't know what a family is supposed to be like. I never had a family. I don't know how, Bobby. I don't know how." Finally, she looked at him.

That's _it_? She afraid? Oh, we can get through this. "Honey, Sweetheart, everyone is afraid of being a parent. Everyone's family is screwed up. We can make a family. We'll do this together. It will be ok. You'll see."

She looked at him. Tell him the rest; go on. "I'm too old to have a baby Bobby. You know that. This was not supposed to happen." She saw he was about to dispute that logic and continued softly looking directly into his eyes, "Bobby, I don't want to be a mother. I don't want to have a baby. I am moving to Chicago in a few months. I cannot have a baby and move to Chicago. I have to work or I'll lose my visa and then I'll have to go back home. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you. I love you. I want you."

He looked at her. He didn't know what to think. She doesn't want a baby? He had to think about this. She doesn't want a baby? He looked at her. Then he looked away. He couldn't talk about it. Not yet. He needed to think about all that she had said.

"Bobby?"

"Uh, let's," he cleared his throat; it was hard to talk. He stood, not looking at her, his hand moving, "I, I uh . . . you go back to sleep. I'm going to stay up a while yet." He walked to the bedroom door, stopped, put a hand on the jamb and had to catch his breath. She doesn't want a baby?

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After Gleason had gone back to sleep, Bobby had sat for a long time in his chair in the dark, thinking. She really does not want this. I'm sure she's pregnant. I'm certain. He wanted to talk with her about this. He had so many questions. When was her last period? Who was her gynecologist? Why, why, why wouldn't she consider having a baby with him? They could get married, and she would not need to worry about a visa. He wanted to marry her. She is the one. He knew it. He knew it.


	45. Chapter 45

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Ch 45

Bobby and Gleason slept late. They woke slowly and snuggled. Bobby kissed her deeply, stroked, and nibbled, wanting to make love. But she did not reciprocate; her back still hurt and she felt crampy. Gleason put him off with a promise of later. She showered first, dressed and went to the kitchen where she made a pot of tea for herself and a pot of coffee for Bobby. She did not throw up.

Bobby saw the unopened pregnancy test in the wastebasket. He took it out and threw it against the shower wall. Goddamn her! She's playing these fucking games! He was so angry with her! Bobby leaned on the front of the sink and seethed. Why won't she cooperate? I just want to know. That's all; just know for sure. Sonofabitch! Bobby's head began to pound. He needed to calm down. He pushed off the sink and ran the shower.

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Sledge and Eames got up early. Well, Sledge got up early. Actually, certain parts of Sledge were up before the rest of him. So, he woke up Eames; and, she got up on him. Even though they had gotten to bed late, after much playful tossing and turning, Eames was up for more.

Sledge showered, dressed and headed out to One Police Plaza. Eames luxuriated in post-coital bliss. She drifted off to sleep.

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The wreckage looked worse in the daylight. Speed unsuited for weather was ruled the cause of the pileup. Firefighters, police officers and EMTs removed all of the bodies – twelve fatalities and four injured, three not expected to survive. Notification of next of kin would follow positive identification.

Tow trucks pulled apart the mangled metal carcasses and hauled them away on flat beds, covered with tarps, to the Melbourne PD lot and garage for inspection. There, inspectors searched each piece of wreckage for VIN number, registration, and returnable goods. Specific causes of injury were determined as well. It was slow, sad work. The experts worked quietly, respectfully.

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The happy trio woke horny as hell. The train wasn't until eleven forty so they had time to play. And did they! After everyone had each other for breakfast, they ordered up from room service. Kylie was such a good host, dinner, a movie and now breakfast. Jenny and Tilley were going to miss their new friend.

Everyone showered, together, then they dressed and Kyle took them to the train. Jenese used Kyle's cell phone to call Canvettelli and ask him to meet the train. Of course, Canvettelli played around, being too busy, being angry, and being the spoiled bitch that he is.

"All right, I'll meet you. Did you do the deal? Did you get the money from the guy you sold the paintings to? Did you? How much?"

"I do not want to discuss this on the phone. We'll talk about it when I see you. I can't wait to see you. It's been a long time. Have you missed me? Meet me at the train. Ok? See you. Bye, bye."

Tilley always felt just a little threatened when Jenny talked like that to one of his associates. He knew he had nothing to worry about, really. But, still, Jenny was so, so, Jenny.

Kyle kissed them both and saw them onto the train. What a couple of jerks, he thought. Still, he had five hundred he didn't have yesterday and had a great time last night and this morning. But, really, what a couple of jerks.

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Gleason waited for him at the table, sipping her tea. He walked in and put a hand on her neck. "You ready?"

"I made you coffee," she said, looking up at him. She got up to pour him a cup and they sat. Bobby was desperate to talk with her. She needed to see a doctor, soon. This pregnancy would be risky because of her age. He did not want to argue with her.

"Bobby I didn't . . ."

"I know. I saw it." He said nothing else.

"Let me finish, ok? I didn't do it because I am not pregnant. I cannot be pregnant."

"Why! Why can't you be pregnant, Gleason. Tell me! Why the fuck can you not be pregnant? Huh?" As soon as it was out of his mouth, he regretted it. "Honey, I'm sorry." His hands tried to push away the words, out of the air. Neither said anything. Then, softly, Bobby asked, "Gleason, when was your last period?" Bobby looked down as he asked her.

Gleason shut her eyes tight. He will not let this go! She set down her cup and said, "I don't remember."

Bobby looked up, "What do you mean you don't remember?"

"I don't remember! I only have three or four periods a year and they are very light."

"What does your gynecologist say about this? They have pills to regulate your cycle."

"I've never been to a gynecologist."

"Honey, you need to see a doctor. Have you ever had a mammogram?" he asked.

"No. Bobby, until the shooting, I had only been to one doctor and that was for a headache that would not go away. You saw those pills."

Bobby ran this through his mind. "You never saw a doctor when Clive . . . when he did what he did to you?"

Gleason looked away, "No."

"You never –"

"No. Bobby, I never went to a doctor. I never told anyone. I never showed anyone. I do not need a doctor. Now can we stop this? Please?" Gleason stood up and went to the closet for her wrap. "Are we going to get breakfast or not?"

Bobby wanted to get this out in the open. He shouted at her, "Gleason I think you are pregnant and you need to see a doctor. All right? Will you see a doctor?"

She spun around and shouted, "No! I don't need a doctor. I'm not pregnant! I'm starting my period today or tomorrow! My back hurts, I'm having cramps. Now please! Please. Leave it alone. Please."

Bobby didn't know what to think. He had noticed that she had not thrown up this morning. She was not digging around for bread or rolls. She seemed cranky, she'd yelled at him twice. Maybe she's not, he thought. Bobby stood and went to her. He reached for her tentatively. She stepped into his arms.

He whispered into her hair, "All right. All right. I'll leave it alone." He took his coat and they went to breakfast.

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"Hey, look at this," a vehicle inspector said, looking into the mangled back end of Jenese's vehicle. His colleague walked over.

"What?"

"Look at this. What's at look like to you? Does at look like pitchers to you?"

His colleague bent and held the utility light higher, peering through the missing back window. "Yeah, that's art, all right. Or was. Hey, Jordon, we're gonna need photos of this."

Jordon walked over to the other two. "What's ya got?"

"I have a feeling we're going to want photos of this art. Shoot it in the vehicle, then each piece separately. They're pretty busted up. See if you can group the parts that kind of look like they go together." To the inspector he said, "Tag each piece, or group of pieces, and set them in inventory. Keep the crating as well. The driver might have been a courier. We'll run him in the system and see how things match up."

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The slugs from Navicky's and Pangborn's heads arrived from the ME's office and went straight to the lab. An analysis of the stippling on all four slugs determined that they came from the same weapon, a Glock .22. The lab ran the slugs through the system looking for matches. It took a while.

Later Sunday afternoon, the DVDs containing surveillance of the storage facility arrived and went to Larry who began to digitize them. The storage facility's surveillance system was state of the art. Each camera recorded everything for seven days. In color. Sodium vapor lamps lit the place at night in an amber glow and the cameras recorded nocturnal animals prowling about, raccoons, rats and such.

Larry had trouble copying and digitizing the content because his equipment was too old and slow to do the surveillance DVDs justice. After making several adjustments, rigging a bypass and soldering a new route, Larry was able to make his equipment do what he wanted. It took a while.

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Deakins and Angie slept late. Julie got up and called Matt. Matt was her boyfriend. Matt had to work yesterday and last night, so Julie was able to be with her folks. She actually had a good time going to dinner and then the movie. Seeing Alex and her date was a neat bonus. She didn't want to admit it, but her mum and dad could be pretty cool most of the time.

But they would not be cool about Matt; he was nineteen and a bad boy. Matt loved her and she loved him. Because they loved each other, he said they didn't need to use condoms. They had been going out for three months. Her folks had no clue.

She dressed and met him at the curb.

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Rodgers never made it back on Saturday. She was dog-tired and pissed. Her damn sister, one crisis after another. Rodgers always knew she was supposed to be an only child. She wanted to get these two done and get home to sleep.

She pulled Navicky's body from the drawer and wheeled him over to station one. Damn, he was frosty. He'll have to sit a bit. She went and pulled out Pangborn's body, wheeled him to station two to thaw and then went to get a cup of coffee.

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Sledge met Bishop in the parking deck. They nodded and rode up silently. Bishop went to the coffee room and brought back two cups. Sledge started sending out the task forms he had completed yesterday afternoon.

His phone rang, "Sledge. . . Yeah, where? . . . Are you sure? . . . Ok, in an hour. . . . Yeah, thanks."

Bishop returned with the two cups as Sledge stood. "We're out of here. That was the Coast Guard. They found a body on the pier and they think the vic's connected to the sailboat. Let's go."

Bishop took a sip, set down her cup, and then took a sip from his. She followed Sledge to the lifts.

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Bobby and Gleason didn't talk much during breakfast. Gleason ate her fruit plate and didn't touch the muffin. Bobby kept stealing looks at her. He saw her lean forward a few times.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"I have cramps. I told you I'm going to start my period, Bobby. I told you I'm not . . . that way," she whispered back to him. She was not pleased.

Ok, it's her period, he thought. He was so sure, though, all those symptoms. Maybe he just wanted it. He's getting older. She is the one. She is getting older, too. Bobby wanted to be a father. He wanted to do what his father had not been able to do. He wanted to be a good father so his child wouldn't turn out bad like Ritchie, or, or odd like himself. He wanted a family, with a normal, healthy wife who would be a normal, healthy mother. Sometimes you don't get all that you want, he thought. He had Gleason. They would have each other. It would be enough. It would be everything.

"Are you ready?" Bobby asked Gleason. She nodded and they stood. Bobby draped her wrap around her and rubbed his hands on her upper arms, giving them a slight squeeze. Together, they went to pay the bill.

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"Angie, Angie! Julie's gone!"


	46. Chapter 46

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Ch 46

Rodgers dictated her findings as she sliced and diced the two thieves. Nearly three and a half hours later, she summarized each autopsy and sent the tapes to transcription with directions for the reports to go to Goren and Eames in Major Case. She sent the photo film canisters to development with the same directions. A radiology technician developed the x-ray films on site and Rodgers kept them; Goren will be down to see them on Monday, she figured.

She asked her assistant to prep the bodies for storage and eventual disposal. There's no rush, she thought, Goren will want to poke at the bodies himself. Then she cleaned up, called her sister, was sorry she did so, and headed to her sister's house. I am taking Monday off, she said to herself.

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"How many bodies did we get out of this vehicle?" the inspector said to his colleague. "I got two wallets here. One on the seat and one on the floor. There's probably one with the body, doncha think?"

"So, where are the other two bodies? Tell me there's been a mix up. Damn. Let me call Sam upstairs." The inspector's colleague walked over to the phone on the counter.

The inspector set each wallet in an evidence bag, filled out the front of each bag and set them inside the evidence bin for this vehicle. He continued searching what he could get to in the mangled wreck.

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"Where is she? When did she leave? Oh, Jesus, Jim, why does she do this?" Angie was beside herself. Julie had done this four other times. She had been a good girl, for the most part, until she turned fourteen. These last eighteen months had been hell.

"Look, calm down. I'll get cars out looking for her. She always comes home. She'll come home this evening. Calm down, Angie. She'll be ok. She'll come home. She always does."

Jimmy Deakins did not want his wife to know how frightened he was. One of these times, Julie was not going to come home. One of these times, she's going to get herself into real trouble. Then, a pair of his own people are going to come knocking on his door and that will be the end of Angie. She will loose her mind if anything happens to Julie.

Deakins walked to the phone in the hall.

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"What do you want for dinner? I'll make us something. Or do you want to go out?" Bobby asked Gleason. They had driven to one of those huge grocery stores.

"I don't care. How can we buy food after eating that huge breakfast? I'm going over here. I'll find you." Gleason walked over to the personal items section while Bobby gathered vegetables and fruits.

Gleason got what she needed, found Bobby looking at meat and said, "Can we hurry and finish? I really want to go home." Gleason slipped her arm through his and leaned into him.

"Are you ok?" he asked, looking at her.

"Let's just finish up and go home. Ok?"

Bobby headed for the check out.

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"Here we go, a match on the stippling on the Glock .22 slugs," the tech said to no one.

He printed out the file with the cross matches. Three other unsolved shootings showed up on this weapon's report. Five people died because of this gun. Last registered to a Marquand Paris, deceased, Mr. Paris' son reported it stolen two years ago when the son was clearing out his father's effects.

The file, rather long at four pages, printed out and the tech sent them up to MCS, attention Detectives Goren, Eames/Sledge, and Bishop.

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Jimmy Deakins drove around looking for his daughter. She could be anywhere. She could be with anyone. Angie was home calling Julie's girlfriends, talking with their moms.

"Yeah," he said into his cell phone.

"Honey, Jimmy, Caitlyn's mother said, Caitlyn told her that Julie is seeing a boy who's nineteen. That means they're in a car. Jimmy they can be going anywhere!"

"Angie, calm down. What kind of car? Did you ask? Who is this guy? Did you get his name? Ange?"

He heard her sobbing. "Angie, Ange. Calm down." He spoke softly, calmly. He waited.

"She, she said his name is Matt. She didn't know his last name. He has a blue car, she didn't know what kind."

"Ok, good. A name is good. I'm going over to Caitlyn's house and talk with her. Relax. Ok? I'll call you."

Jimmy Deakins turned around and headed to his daughter's best friend's house.

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"What are you going to tell him? He's going to want to know who we sold the paintings to. Are you going to tell him they were stolen? You can't tell him that, he thinks you needed the money to –"

"Will you shut up! Jesus, Tilley. I'll take care of it. Don't I always take care of things? Don't worry." Jenese put his hand on his lover's knee and patted gently. Then he took the other man's hand and held it. "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry. Don't I always take care of you?" Jenese gently leaned against Tilley.

Tilley sighed and whispered, "Yes, you always take care of me."

"And I always will." They sat quietly for a few minutes. Then, Jenese asked, "Did you see a men's room anywhere? I bet you need a men's room, huh? I bet I can help you in that men's room, huh?" Jenese' hand left Tilley's and slid up Tilley's thigh. Jenese cupped his lover's goods and whispered, "Go find the men's room and wait for me. No, get yourself going and then wait for me."

Tilley smiled and stepped past Jenese in search of the men's room.

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Bobby had to park around the block. He wanted to drop off Gleason in front of the building, but she wanted to walk, said it was good to walk. They each carried a bag of groceries and then trudged up the steps.

Bobby took her bag from her and said, "Here, give me this. Why don't you – "

Gleason suddenly bent forward with a groan. She leaned on the back of the chair and Bobby was over her in a heartbeat. "What? Gleason, what's wrong? Honey?"

It passed and Gleason stood upright. "It's just cramps, Bobby. Just cramps. I need these."

She took the package and went down the hall.

Bobby had no experience with this whatsoever. He knew about periods, of course, just as he knew about other things. But being with a woman during this time, no idea. He didn't even know when Eames was . . . at that time. And, honestly, he didn't want to know. Even with Madelyn, back in the academy, he never knew, and they had practically lived together. Women and their functions were mysteries to him.

He had put away the groceries and was folding the bags when Gleason returned to the kitchen. She went to him and he held her. "Are you ok, Sweetheart?"

She just leaned against him, arms folded between his chest and hers. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"Huh uh," she answered, not moving away. Bobby held her and rocked slightly. He felt her begin to shiver.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"Why don't you go lie down and take a nap? I'll cover you up and you can rest. Ok?"

Gleason nodded against Bobby's chest and they moved to the bedroom together. Gleason went to her side of the bed and lay down. Bobby pulled up her green throw, covered her and sat beside her.

"Gleason, is this just your period?" Bobby asked softly.

She looked up at him, "What else would it be?"

He didn't want to go into it again, but it had occurred to him, this might be the end of something. But he didn't know. She knows her body better than me, he thought. But he still wondered. "Are you warm enough?" he asked.

"I would be warmer if you laid here with me. Lay with me for a bit?"

Bobby put his hand on her neck, bent and kissed her softly. "Of course," he replied.

He went around the bed, kicked off his shoes and lay next to her, holding her, warming her back, loving her. Wondering.

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"Matt, I don't want to do this," Julie told her boyfriend.

"Come on, baby, if you love me, you'll want to. You love me, don't you?" Matt was a scrawny, dirty, doper dropout who occasionally worked in a fast food joint. Julie thought he was cute with his long hair and slouchy build. Besides, he was the exact opposite end of the spectrum from what her parents would approve of.

"I do love you but I don't want to. Let's go sit on the swings. Ok? Let's just be together." Julie didn't want to make out. It was a nice day and she really wanted to be on the swings with him. It would be fun. Romantic. She reached for the door handle and he grabbed her hand.

"Come on, I said. Let's do it. I'll be quick. It'll feel good, come on. Let me." He slid his hand up under her tiny skirt and grabbed the top of her panties.

"No! Matt, stop it! I don't want to." Julie pushed his hand away and turned toward the passenger door again.

"Well, I want to, bitch!" Matt grabbed her around the waist with one arm and undid his pants with his other hand. He was erect.

Julie fought him and he went nuts. He struck her with the hand that had opened his pants and she screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

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Bishop and Sledge pulled into the parking lot at the pier and met Petty Officer Petrosky.

"Where's this body?" Sledge asked him.

"Over here. It looks like he was beaten."

"What makes you think he's associated with the sailboat? The boat's been missing nearly ten days." Bishop asked.

"Well, wait till you see him."

The two detectives followed Petrosky around the back of the stationhouse. Two uniforms stood over the crumpled, beaten body of an older, bald man.

"Looks like he's been a few hours," one of the uniforms reported.

Sledge bent over the body, pulling on gloves. CSU was combing the area for spent shells, any kind of weapon. The ME's van was open and two techs were bringing over the stretcher. Bishop talked with the two uniforms.

"How was the body discovered," she asked.

"A kid brought his girlfriend down here for some nooky on his dad's boat. They were on their way back to the car when they found him. They're over in the back of the patrol car." He nodded to the black and white parked nearest the dock. The back doors were open and Bishop could see a couple in the back seat.

"Ok, thanks." Bishop walked over to the patrol car and interviewed the kid and his girlfriend. They passed by the station house at about two on the way to the kid's dad's boat and saw nothing. The craft sat docked on the far end, so they heard nothing – not that they would have with the fun they were having. They were on their way back to their car at about seven when they saw the body. They called 9-1-1 and then the Coast Guard showed up, followed by the NYPD. "Ok, thanks."

Sledge was walking away from the body as Bishop was returning. "This is a roll and toss. No way is it connected to the sailboat. Jesus." Sledge pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his coat pocket.

"What made Petrosky think it was?" Bishop asked.

"The guy is an absolute ass kisser. Detective wannabe. Thinks he knows. Perceptive, you know, always been. Missed his calling. Ya-dah, ya-dah." Sledge said it all with mocking distain.

"So, what now?"

"We let the ME's bus take him in, we turn it back to the locals and we head back to work."

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"That's a good boy, Marshall. Good boy." A man walking his dog heard a girl screaming. He saw a blue Malibu parked along side the tree line in the park and thought he saw struggling in the front seat. He reached for his cell phone.


	47. Chapter 47

257

Aligned Design

Ch 47

"I swear to God, I will have your ass for statutory rape, assault, kidnapping, and anything else I can drum up." Deakins made himself stay away from the filthy piece of shit sitting at the table in Interrogation Room 2. Perkins and three others stood by, just in case their boss went ape shit on the guy.

Deakins knew he would have to turn the kid over to the locals, but not yet. He spoke with Perkins, telling him to park that maggot in a holding cell until Deakins got back. "Nobody talks to him. He talks to no one. This bastard has no rights, understand?" Deakins said he would be back in two hours. He headed to his vehicle and drove to the hospital to see his daughter.

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Bobby held Gleason until she fell asleep. He carefully moved away from her and went into the living room for the throw on the back of the sofa. He returned to the bedroom and laid it over her green throw. He stood and watched her sleep for a few moments. He had been certain she was carrying his child. Certain. He sighed and turned away.

Bobby ran down to the lobby and retrieved the Sunday paper from his box. Then he heated a cup of coffee in the microwave, sat in his chair, and opened the paper. Ten minutes later, he was asleep.

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The Melbourne, NY PD positively identified all but two of the fatalities from the pileup. The body from the vehicle with the art had had a wallet on it. Because two other wallets had been found in the vehicle with the body, they ran all three though the system. Neither Alphonse Jones nor Palmer Tillman popped; however, they got a hit on Dominic Jenese. The hit also showed a recent pull from the Major Case Squad in Manhattan.

Sgt. Tom Dillon gave a call to MCS to let them know that the wallet of their recent pull on Dominic Jenese had shown up in a wrecked vehicle in Melbourne. He left a message for anyone associated with the pull. He was told, with thanks, that someone would get back to him shortly.

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Angie sat with Julie in a bay in the ER of Methodist Hospital. Angie would have killed her youngest daughter had she not been so relieved that she was alive. Julie would have a shiner on her right eye for weeks and would not see the light of day for years – if Angie had her way. Julie was lucky that Matt hadn't hit her harder or more often.

Angie had insisted, over Julie's protests, that a rape kit be done. She also insisted that vaginal fluids be tested for every known STD including HIV. She wanted to know if Julie could be pregnant, and if they could tell how long ago her hymen had been broken. She wanted all of the facts before she talked with Julie's father. This child needs counseling. She asked about referrals for this kind of behavior.

Julie sat and sulked on the gurney, not looking at her mother, dreading her father's arrival. She thought of Matt. Well, she was done with him, not that there would be any chance of her ever seeing Matt again after this. She honestly wondered if her dad would beat up Matt. You know, take him into a soundproof, windowless room with officers standing outside the door, knowing what he was doing, standing guard, letting their boss beat the crap out of Matt. He deserved it, for sure.

The more she thought of what she had done, the worse Julie felt. She thought about the good time she had had with her folks the previous evening. They fun she and her mum had had all day yesterday. She thought about Caitlyn, her best friend. Caitlyn's mum probably made Caitlyn tell her own mum about Matt and his car. She thought about how badly Caitlyn must feel, having to tell on her best friend.

The more she thought about things, the worse she felt. After nearly an hour of just sitting and waiting, Julie was in a very dark place in her mind. Her parents would not be able to love her ever again. Her teachers will find out. They will think of her as a bad girl. Everyone at school will know about her, they'll think she's a slut. The boys will all want to go out with her just so they can get into her pants. None of the girls will want to hang out with her, because she's so easy. Julie had thought herself into a clinical depression.

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"I will bet you we have a stack of things waiting for us when we get upstairs," Sledge said to Bishop in the lift.

"And this excites you?" she replied.

"Yeah. See, if we have stuff to do, the time will go fast. We'll get a leg up on Goren and Eames. Maybe push that art heist to the solve column. Then, Deakins will look upon us favorably." Sledge smiled at his logic.

"'Look upon us favorably'? What is with you, Edward? Since when do you care about who thinks what about anything?"

They walked from the lifts to the bullpen. "Hey, Sledge, you got a couple messages here. And the report on the Glock .22 stippling came up," Perkins called over.

Sledge turned to his partner and smiled with a nod, "Told you, didn't I?" He crossed to Perkins and picked up two message slips and the stippling report.

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Deakins found his wife and daughter in the ER. Angie saw him and crossed to him, arms out. He gathered her, hugged her and walked to his daughter. Angie pulled him back and said, "Jim, wait. Don't yell. She's safe. Don't yell at her."

Deakins couldn't take his eyes off his daughter's face. "Look at her! Jesus Christ, he beat her!"

"Jim! Jim, look at me. Jimmy, please. Please."

He finally looked at his wife. "I had them do a complete vaginal workup. A rape kit, swabs for all STDs. Let's wait and see what they say. Ok? Jim, do not yell at her. Promise?" Angie held onto his arm until he nodded. They walked to Julie's side together.

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"Sweetie, oh, Canvettelli, I have missed you! Come here, come here." Jenese saw his quasi-business partner and rushed to him. Tillman stayed back, hanging out with the two bags. He watched his lover hug and kiss this pretty, slim, pale, young man. So, this is the famous Canvettelli, huh? Well, well, well. We shall see.

Canvettelli was aloof, air kissing his former lover. "So, you are here. Are we wealthy? How much did you get? Where is it?" He looked at Jenese from under raised eyebrows.

"We are wealthy indeed! You are going to be so happy. The guy really wanted those pieces. Well, he only wanted two of them, but I told him the lot or naught. He said ok, reluctantly. But, because it was three times what he was expecting to pay, he had to transfer funds between accounts in the Caymans."

Canvettelli crossed his arms, slung out his hip and copped an attitude of ultimate disdain. "So, you have no money. Is that right? The money is in the Caymans. Do you have an account number? Tell me you have an account number."

"Of course, silly, I have an account number. What do you think I am? Now, I want you to meet our third party." Jenese turned and motioned for Tillman to approach. "Sweetie, come here, I want you to meet a very important person. Come on, come here."

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Julie wouldn't look at her parents. Deakins was trembling. Anger and relief battled for domination in his mind and heart. "Julie. Are you ok?"

She refused to look at him. Her parents hated her. Her teachers will hate her. Everyone at school will hate her and then laugh at her. Her face hurt. She just wanted to die.

"Julie. We're going to wait to see what they find out from the tests and then we'll go home. Do you want something to drink?" Deakins was afraid of how she looked. Not the black eye, but the way she looked. He had seen that same look in too many perps sitting in an interrogation room. Resignation, later diagnosed as bipolar disorder.

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Larry was just about finished digitizing the surveillance DVDs from the storage facility. He really needed to requisition new equipment. He'd keep the old, current, equipment, but he could really do good stuff with new equipment.

He had six more hours to do and then it would all be ready for Goren to eyeball. What a freak that guy is, Larry thought. He'll sit for hours just looking at tapes of nothing. Damn, though, he'd find something. Every time. There would be miles of tape of nothing and he'd find something. Larry had heard some of the guys talking about Goren. They said they heard him once say he liked to watch. Yeah, he's just the type to sit back and watch. Freak.

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Gleason came out of the bathroom and headed down the hall. She saw Bobby sound asleep in his chair. The newspaper lay crumpled in his lap. His right leg slung over the arm of his chair, his left leg folded under him. His head rested on his left shoulder. He looked like a little boy. Gleason stopped with that thought. A little boy. Wisps of a dream blew away. A little boy.

She left him sleeping and went into the kitchen to make soup and salads for dinner. They should have gotten some bread. Darn.

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Sledge and Bishop looked through the stippling report. She put it in her debriefing notes for tomorrow. Sledge asked her to add the surveillance tapes that Larry said would be done by morning; Goren will want to sit and watch the footage. Jesus, what a dork. Sledge also said to add the hit on the wallet found in the wreck in Melbourne. Bishop included the ME's report that would be up tomorrow sometime, Goren will want to go poke around the two bodies.

"You know, after we debrief the captain, Goren and Eames, we need to get back on that sailboat. The divers are going down tomorrow midmorning. We should be out there, don't you think?"

Bishop stopped writing and said, "I go where you go, big boy."

Sledge smiled at this. "Goren won't be in until close to ten. He's got his shrink first thing. That will give us some time to set up the visit to the pier. We just may settle these two cases this week. That'll make the boss happy."

Bishop looked at her watch. Four-nineteen. "Deakins never made it in today. Good on him for taking off a Sunday. Hope he had a good time with his family. That way, he'll be a happy boss tomorrow."

Sledge smiled, recalling last night. What an event that was. Deakins' daughter is a piece of work, huh? "So, you think it's time to head out? I do. Let's go."

They each closed up shop and headed out. Sledge went to Eames' place. He hoped she was hungry. They would get dinner afterward.

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Eames set the table and opened the wine. She had made pork chops, new potatoes, green beans, a nice, salad, and she even thawed a cheesecake. She changed the sheets, had taken a nice bath and was really looking forward to this evening. She had done a lot of thinking this afternoon. She wanted to see how this went and then would continue her thinking.

It had been a long time since she felt this excited.


	48. Chapter 48

9

Aligned Design

Ch 48.

Julie had fallen asleep on the gurney in the ER. Deakins had gotten another chair and he and Angie sat in the bay beside her, holding hands, not talking. He knew he had to get help for his little girl. This erratic behavior was not normal. The mood swings – the sweet little girl-ness one day, the vicious, hateful behavior the next. This was not your run-of-the-mill adolescent turmoil. He had had that with his two older girls. They had been nothing like this.

Angie knew Julie would have some disease. She knew it. She had never seen this Matt boy, but she had a feeling he was dirty. Angie knew, in her mother's heart, that Julie did not use condoms. She shook her head, not even believing she was thinking about her baby girl having sex, let alone without a condom. How could Julie be like this? What happened? They had raised each of the girls the same way, same rules, same routine, same love. Neither Catherine nor Janine had been like this.

Jimmy and Angie Deakins waited to learn what Julie had done to her body.

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Canvettelli drove his two, partners, he supposed, to his flat. That Tillman fellow was being awfully quiet. He was cute, though, sweet looking. We will have to see, won't we?

"Oh, Cann it is so good to be home. I cannot tell you how much I missed you." Jenese turned to Tillman and continued, "Didn't I tell you how good looking Cann is? Didn't I tell you what a good person he is? Didn't I?"

"Yes, you told me," Tilley replied flatly. He did not trust this Canvettelli fellow. Not one bit. Who does he think he is, being so prissy, so aloof? Tilley kept his eye on this pretty boy.

Canvettelli was a gracious host, regardless of the circumstances. He swept around his tiny kitchen, preparing cheese, crackers, a small plate of cut up fruits; he opened a bottle of wine. They would discuss the financial arrangements over food and drink, like civilized people. Then, depending on what he learned from Jenese, they might just have welcome home sex. That Tillman boy was looking sweeter and sweeter. He has a very nice bump between his pockets, Canvettelli noticed.

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Bobby slept soundly. He didn't dream, he rarely did. Gleason stood watching him. Her heart burst with love for him. She crossed to the sofa and sat, legs under her, looking at him, smiling contentedly.

She thought about the past two days. Coming home to Bobby, deciding to stay with him, deciding to take the job in Chicago, deciding to commute, all of it; and then the talk of a baby. Gleason had wondered if she might be pregnant. She knew the symptoms. She would not allow herself to consider it, however.

Gavin had wanted children. She loved Bobby as she had loved Gavin. They would still be together, she and Gavin, probably living in Stockport, if she had given him a child. That is all he wanted, one child. She could not, would not do that. It had ended their relationship.

Bobby wanted a baby, too. But she could not, would not do that. And now it didn't matter. It was over.

Gleason felt herself well up. Don't be silly, she told herself. Stop it. This is your period. There never was a baby. Now, stop it. She shuddered a huge sigh, unfolded herself from the sofa and crossed to her sleeping love.

She knelt beside his chair, beside his leg and reached for his face, putting her hand on his jaw. His whiskers pinched.

"Dearheart, Love, wake up."

Bobby stirred, opened his eyes and saw her. His hand went to hers and he pressed it against his cheek, smiling at her. He drew a deep breath, turned his head to kiss her palm and winched. "Ahhhh, gee whiz!" he said painfully, "God, my neck!"

Gleason smiled, took back her hand, stood up and went behind his chair. She reached down and rubbed his neck and shoulder. "I love you," she said to the top of his head.

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"Boy, something smells good," Sledge said coming in the door. "You can smell it out in the hallway." He shrugged out of his coat and laid it on the sofa.

"I cooked dinner for us. Hungry?" Eames said with a huge smile, walking from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

Sledge was amazed. First of all, it smelled wonderful in here; he didn't know Alex could cook. Secondly, she looked wonderful, her hair was shiny, and he loved those black jeans and tight sweater, with nothing underneath, he noticed. What a great surprise. He gathered her in his arms, bent and kissed her. His right hand went to her jaw and his fingers moved into her hair. His tongue flicked against her lips and she let him in. Alex felt him rise against her.

The kiss broke and Sledge held her head in his hands. He looked deeply into her eyes. "Alex, I, I . . . I didn't know you could cook. What did you make?"

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"I've got to call in," Deakins said to his wife. "I'll just be a few minutes." Angie smiled weakly at him and he went outside to make his call.

Perkins picked up, "Hey, Captain, I was just going to call you before I head out. Hey, that kid is really causing a fuss. He's shouting for a lawyer, his one phone call, all of that. What do you want us to do? Hey, how's your daughter? I should have asked that first."

"Tell that sonofabitch we can't find a lawyer because it's Sunday. He's going to spend the night. Tell the guys on watch to give him his one phone call. Tell them to get him supper, something ugly and cold. I'll be in when I'm done here. Tell them to call me if anything comes up."

"Got it."

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Bobby and Gleason ate the soup and salad. Both wished they had gotten a loaf of bread at the store. They talked like an old married couple. She talked about getting back to her classes tomorrow, how her heart just wasn't in it any more. She wanted to be fair to the students, but she was eager to get onto the syllabi she would write for her new job. Gleason watched Bobby as she said this last bit, about the new job. She saw him tilt his head slightly to the left and look down. She knew he was unhappy about her decision. They would have to make it work. She would make it work.

Bobby talked about needing to get back to the range. He told Gleason what Deakins had said about his score needing to be up where it had been before he had broken his hand. His scores had to be up by Thursday. He also told her he thought Deakins would forget about that deadline. Nevertheless, Bobby would go to the range tomorrow after work. Gleason had a night class tomorrow. They would get home later in the evening at about the same time.

They finished eating, cleaned up the kitchen and walked two blocks north to an ice cream parlor to get a sundae. They walked home, holding hands, climbed the steps to the flat and sat quietly for a while. Bobby read the paper and Gleason prepared for her classes.

By eleven-ten, they were in bed, asleep in each other's arms.

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Angie was talking with a doctor when Deakins returned. "What'd I miss?" he said approaching.

"Jimmy, this is Dr. Wiley. She examined Julie." They shook hands.

"I was just about to tell your wife the test results. Maybe we should go in here." She lead them to a small, stark cubical. Deakins heart raced. This isn't good, he said to himself. He glanced at Angie, saw she was about to cry and put his arm around her.

"Have a seat. Your daughter is fifteen, right?" They nodded. "Well, as far as I can tell, she's been sexually active for less than a year, probably six months or so. The scarring on her hymen looks relatively new. However, she has engaged in some fairly aggressive sex, I'm afraid. I found evidence of other, older scarring and there is evidence of vaginal trauma from this encounter."

"This was not an 'encounter', Doctor, my daughter was raped," Deakins emphasized.

"Of course, I'm sorry, my mistake." Dr. Wiley reddened and looked down at her notes. Then she continued, "She is not currently pregnant. But we're going to give her an ECP to prevent fertilization or implantation, just in case." Angie exhaled as though she had been holding her breath.

"Her tests for STDs showed positive for chlamydia and gonorrhea."

"Jesus Christ," Deakins said between clenched teeth. He was going to kill that goddamn sonofabitch with his bare hands.

Angie put her hands to her mouth and mewled. Deakins put his arm around her and hugged her.

"Is Julie allergic to penicillin?"

"No," Deakins answered.

"We're going to give her one dose of azithromycin. It's used to treat both chlamydia and gonorrhea. However, an antibiotic resistant strain of gonorrhea is showing up in a number of places, including New York. We are going to give your daughter a single dose of ciprofloxacin, as well. If that doesn't clear it up, she'll need a shot of spectinomycin."

Dr. Wiley let this settle and then continued, "These are powerful medicines. Julie may experience nausea and vomiting for a short time. It will pass." She hesitated, but needed to say this next bit. She leaned forward and said softly, "Uhm, Julie should refrain from any sexual activity for at least seven days to allow the medications to work."

That did it, Deakins blew, he was on his feet yelling, "For Christ's sake, she's fifteen! She shouldn't be having sex in the first place!"

"Jimmy, please, sit down. Jimmy." Angie was in tears.

Deakins turned toward his wife and said to the doctor, "What about the HIV screen?"

"The results of that will be back in two to three days. We will call you one way or another. We will need a secure phone number to reach you; one Julie won't have access to. Mr. Deakins, please, sit down. There's one more thing we need to discuss."

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Canvettelli was not buying one bit of what Jenese was telling him. He could see the guy was lying. He is making this up as he goes, Canvettelli said to himself. Well, I will show his sorry ass what happens when you fuck with me. He will be so sorry. You just wait.

Tilley had been sitting quietly, watching his lover lie through his teeth to the pretty boy sitting across from them. He is pretty, Tilley thought, and slim. Tilley had noticed how Cann kept glancing over at him and he was flattered. He sighed, I can't help it. Jenny's boyfriends all take a shine to me. But I do share. The more the merrier.

"So, we can't do anything until the banks open up in the Caymans tomorrow. What say we hit the sack and then each other's?" Oh, I am clever, Jenese thought; he was the only one.

Canvettelli glanced at Tilley who gave him the look. "Oh, you boys are staying here tonight?" Cann asked with fake surprise. "Well, I'm not prepared for overnight guests. We may have to share my bed. It will be close quarters. I hope you and your friend don't mind tight personal spaces." He said all of this directly to Tilley. Jenese caught the exchange and got all tingly. He did want Tilley to have a good time.

"Ok then, let us say goodnight."

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After dinner, Sledge and Alex watched a dirty movie she had picked up. It was pretty hard-core.

"Where in the hell did you get this?" Sledge asked with a dash of admiration in his voice.

"Do you like it?"

"Jesus, Alex. This is some stuff here. Look at that. Dear God." Sledge was really liking this movie. He had to shift a bit. Alex snuggled closer and put her hand on his pump, working it.

"I'm glad you like it. I thought you might."

"Ah, should I be taking notes here?" Sledge asked, needing to shift again. "Hon, we're gonna have to do something right here if you keep that up. Come on, quit."

"You want me to stop?" Alex moved to his buckle. "I'll stop if you want me to stop." His belt was open and she moved to the button and then the zipper. She opened his pants and he unfolded against his boxers, he was erect.

"God, Alex," he said deeply. He was breathing heavily. "Hon, what are you going to do?"

Alex lifted out his length, he was enormous. "Hmmm, this looks good," she said, sliding her hand up and then down. Her tiny hand couldn't close around his girth.

Sledge slid further back against the sofa. "Hon, what are you going to do? Huh? Alex?"

Eames was so hot, she wanted to jump him right here. But she wanted to have fun with him first. She wanted to see how long she could play before he spewed.

"Oh, I don't know. I could just stroke you. Like this, up and down."

"Ahhh, yeah, good."

"Or, I could lick you up and down." Alex leaned over and dragged her wet tongue along the long underside of his shaft. Sledge moaned. The lovers on the video were going at it, making sex sounds. It was like having another couple in the room.

"Oh, Hon, suck me. Come on. Eat me, Alex. Jesus. Eat me." Sledge put his hand on the back of Alex's head. "Ungh, Hon, c'mon. Suck it."

Alex slid the tip of his penis into her mouth and flicked her tongue over the end. Sledge groaned. Alex slid a third of him into her mouth and sucked. She moved him in and out of her mouth. "Oh, God, Alex. More, take more." She couldn't, he was too big. She was going to come just listening to him and the people on the video. She took all she could and hummed. Sledge pushed up.

That did it, she had to have him inside. Right now. Alex let go, stood up, undid her pants, pushed them down and off and straddled his lap. She got up on her knees and he set himself against her. He rubbed himself against her opening. He poked in just a bit. It was his turn to tease her. "You like that? Feel good? Want that in you? Straight up? Tight, pushing you open? Huh?"

"Edward, come on. Inside, go inside. Fuck me. Come on. Fuck me." Alex struggled against him, trying to sit on his pole.

"No, no, no, not yet. We should watch and learn. Here, let's watch and learn." Sledge turned her around on his lap like she weighed nothing. "There, see what they're doing? That's us in ten minutes."

Alex looked at the screen and saw a man fucking his woman from behind. She looked like she was enjoying it.

"See that? That's us." Sledge bent Eames over so that she leaned on the coffee table and he took her that way. He shoved straight in and nearly filled her. She was incredibly tight, bent over this way. He watched himself slide in and out. He knew he was big, but Jesus, watching his dick slide in and out of her tiny hole . . . oh, it was good.

Alex could feel him rub parts that had never been touched. She was going to come. He had only shoved twice and she was going to come! She tightened up around him and heard him respond. Edward was sounding behind her, the people on the video were beginning to come in front of her. She was right there and she pushed back against him, hard, calling out her orgasm. Sledge came pulling on her as he pushed into her. He'd not been that far up her, ever. He felt himself jerk inside, shooting his cum inside.

The four people, two on the sofa, two on the screen, all came at the same time. They settled at the same time. And they started up again at the same time.


	49. Chapter 49

14

Aligned Design

Ch 49

"Good morning, Detective. How was your weekend?" Dr. Stephens indicated to the other chair. Bobby waited for her to sit and then he sat.

"It was ok."

"This was your weekend off?"

"Yes. Eames and I were called to a scene early on Saturday. Two bodies were found connected to a case we're investigating."

"Did that upset you? Having to go out on your weekend off?"

"Yes."

She looked at him.

"But, it's my job."

"I see. Anything else happen?"

"Deakins took my weapon Friday afternoon. I don't know when I'll get it back."

"How did that make you feel? Your captain taking your weapon?"

Bobby looked at her with, not contempt, but with resignation. "I felt angry, bad, like I'd been castrated. That's how I felt. I still do." Dr. Stephens caught the building anger in his voice.

"Do you know why he decided to take your weapon?"

Bobby stood up and moved to the bookcase as he had on Friday morning, his back to her. "He took it because I have anger problems. I have a temper I cannot control. I'm seeing a shrink three times a week. I cannot be trusted with a weapon. My partner is afraid of me. That's why he took my weapon, Dr. Stephens. Wouldn't you?"

She was quiet, letting him steam off a bit. Then, "Have you heard from Gleason?" She watched his head drop. She noted the change in his posture.

Bobby turned around and said softly, "She came home Friday afternoon. I picked her up at the airport. She's moving to Chicago in a few months. I thought she was pregnant. Apparently, she's not. What else do you want to know?"

That's a lot for so few days, thought Dr. Stephens. He is so full of anger, and he sounds powerless. "Detective, you never answered my last question on Friday. You said you love Gleason. I asked if she loves you. Does she love you?"

Bobby thought a long minute. He returned to his chair. "She says she does. I believe her. She said she will commute between New York and Chicago. She'll be teaching at Northwestern. She's excited."

"How about you? How do you feel about her moving away?"

"I would rather she stay here. But she wants to, needs to, work. I love her too much to ask her not to go. I think it will be ok." Bobby sounded resigned, sad.

"You said you thought she was pregnant. That's pretty big. Why did you think she was pregnant?"

"She had all of the symptoms. She had morning sickness; she was going to the bathroom all the time; she had this thing, this craving for bread." He hesitated, looked down and then added, "Her breasts seemed full, heavy and, and her libido was heightened."

Dr. Stephens looked down and hid her smile. He was embarrassed. This is a good man, she thought.

"You say she's not. How so?"

Bobby tilted his head to the left and squeezed his eyes with the fingers of his left hand. "She claimed she wasn't. She was adamant about it. Then, yesterday, she started her period."

"How old is Gleason?"

"Forty-two; forty-three in April."

"A pregnancy would be a risk at her age."

He was on his feet. "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? She's not pregnant, doesn't want to be pregnant. So it's done." He turned and walked back to the bookcase. He shoved his hands in to his pockets.

Dr. Stephens let him simmer. Then she asked, "How did you feel, thinking she might be expecting?"

Bobby spun around and yelled, "Why the fuck are we talking about something that isn't going to happen?" He glared at the psychiatrist.

Dr. Stephens looked straight at him and asked, "You wanted her to be pregnant, didn't you? You wanted to have a baby with her. Isn't that right?"

Bobby saw red, it was hot, he clenched and unclenched his fists inside his pockets. He breathed deeply several times. Talking about this was ripping off a scab over and over again. He turned his back and put both hands over his face. Dr. Stephens waited, watching.

Finally, Bobby answered softly, "Yes. I wanted to have a baby with her."

Dr. Stephens let that confession ride in the air a moment.

"What kind of father do you think you would make?"

Bobby crossed back to his chair and sat, elbows on knees. He spoke softly, looking at the floor, "I'd try to be a good father. I would spend time with my child. We would play together. I'd take him or her places – the park, the library. I would love my child. Be proud of him, of her. We would read together. I'd put him to bed; tuck him in. I would hold him. I would make it easy for my child to love me."

They sat quietly for several minutes. Bobby sat back in the chair, glancing at Dr. Stephens. She sat, not writing, not looking at him. She was processing everything Detective Goren had said, how he said it, what it might mean.

"Did your father do those things with you?"

Without hesitation, Bobby responded vehemently, "My father was overwhelmed with a schizophrenic wife and two young boys. He didn't know what to do. My father never hit Ritchie or me; he never raised a hand to our mother. He would yell, sure, he would hit the wall, throw things. He drank too much and slept with other women." Bobby paused, and then continued quietly, "My father did what he could, what he knew. But, no, he never did any of those things."

"So you want to be a father to show you are different from your father. That you are not your father."

Bobby stood up again, moved away again, "I want to be a father because I love Gleason and I want us to be a family."

"That's it? You wanting her to be pregnant has nothing to do with you proving you are not like your father?"

Bobby spun and yelled, "Why are we talking about my father? I am nothing like my father. I have nothing to prove to anyone. Can we talk about something else?" He looked at his watch, Jesus it's only been thirty minutes.

"Ok, let's talk about something else. Have you always had this anger, this temper?"

"Jesus, you know all the buttons to push, don't you?" he said angrily. "Given my upbringing, I think my anger and temper are to be expected."

"Tell me about your upbringing, Detective."

Bobby's hand went to his head. "I thought we were going to talk about something else."

"You brought up your upbringing."

"What do you want to know?"

"Talk about your mother."

"I was seven and Ritchie was nine when she first manifested symptoms. That's when Dad and Ritchie started staying away. I stayed close to home. Someone had to make sure things were done. That she was safe."

"You were seven. A little boy."

He looked at her. "Before she got sick, before she got sick, everything was good. She did things with us, we baked, cooked, she would color with us, in coloring books. She was a librarian. Ritchie and I used to help her in the library. We'd push the cart as she would reshelf books. She would show us where to put a book and we would slide it in. She would let us stamp the return date sometimes, for certain people." Bobby leaned back and squeezed his eyes again, with his fingers.

"You had a good time, a happy early childhood."

"Yes, she was a good mother. Even after she got sick, when she wasn't manifesting so much, she looked after us. But it never lasted. Dad called the police once when she was very bad and they took her to hospital. She was in for three weeks. Back then, the meds they used turned her into a zombie. She would sleep all the time, not bathe, not change her clothes. Then she would quit taking them and manifest again. I looked after her. I tried to look after Ritchie and Dad. I would make dinner, wash clothes.

"What about school?"

"I went to school. Everyone knew about her. Kids made fun of her, of me. They made fun of Ritchie and he would beat the crap out of them. I just ignored it." Bobby stopped; he looked at his hands, considering whether to continue. Dr. Stephens waited, watching to see what he would do, what he would say.

A long silent minute passed, and then Bobby said softly, "One time, the school wanted to talk with my father about me. They wanted me to go into a program of some sort. They were going to bus me to another school."

"What kind of program was it?"

Bobby continued to look down. "For special kids."

Dr. Stephens was surprised by this. According to his file, Detective Goren had a genius IQ; he was off the charts on some measures.

Bobby hesitated, then, "They said I was smart. That I 'wasn't realizing my potential.' My father wouldn't sign the papers. He said no kid of his was going to ride the short bus." Bobby shook his head. Then he sat upright and continued, "It was ok, though. I would have had to leave early and would have gotten home late. My mother would have been alone too long. I needed to be there with her. It worked out ok."

Dr. Stephens took a few notes. Bobby glanced at her as she wrote, then he continued, "They divorced when I was eleven. Ritchie was thirteen and already a delinquent. He would steal money from her purse. He started shoplifting. Smoking. Drinking. He's no better today. Now it's gambling." Bobby leaned back, leaned his head to the left and tented his fingers in front of his mouth.

"How is your mother now?"

"She's in a residential care facility, Carmel Ridge. She is safe there; they care for her there. They make sure she gets her medication. She's doing well," Bobby replied softly.

Dr. Stephens nodded, "That is a wonderful facility. It is private, expensive. How do you manage? If I may ask."

"She has social security. And my dad's pension. I sold her house and auctioned her items. That money is in trust for her care. The rest comes from my military retirement each month."

Dr. Stephens looked at the detective with admiration. What a wonderful woman his mother must have been, to raise such a wonderful son. "So, you are still looking after her. Do you have contact with her?"

"I see her every week, and I phone just about everyday. She enjoys when I call and visit."

"Has she met Gleason?"

"Not yet. Gleason knows about Mum, about her illness. I want them to meet."

"Does your mum know that Gleason is a part of your life?"

Bobby hesitated and Dr. Stephens caught it. Bobby sat forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his thighs. He cleared his throat and said, "I've told Mum about Gleason. I'm not sure how much she remembers from time to time. I think once she and Gleason meet, it'll mean more. Gleason will be real to her."

"When do you see that happening, your mother and Gleason meeting?"

"I don't know. Soon. Before Gleason goes to Chicago."

"Why before she goes to Chicago?"

Bobby put his head in his hands. "Because, I want to anchor Gleason here. I want her to know my mum. I want Mum to know her. I want them to bond. I know, I know all about the interpersonal issues with some schizophrenics. My mum is ok that way. She has friends at Carmel Ridge."

Dr. Stephens looked at the good detective and said, "They are the two women in your life. Does your partner make three?"

Bobby looked up at the doctor and said, "Eames is my partner. Partners come and partners go. I love Gleason and I love my mother. Eames is my partner."

Dr. Stephens needed to ask this next question. "Detective, when you thought Gleason might be pregnant, were you concerned at all about your child having your mother's disease? It is hereditary, you know."

Bobby stood up again and pushed his hands into his pockets. He took a few steps, but did not turn his back, did not move to the bookcase. "I know it is hereditary. I kept wondering if I would have it, still do. I guess I lucked out so far. Ritchie doesn't have it." He paused, and crossed to a table in front of the window.

Dr. Stephens waited for him to continue. He did not, so she asked, "Does it matter that a child of yours might develop schizophrenia?"

Bobby closed his eyes and his head tilted left. He forced himself to speak, softly, slowly, "It doesn't matter because I'm probably never going to have children. The woman I love, will only ever love, doesn't want to have children." Dr. Stephens waited again. "Now, can we please talk about something else? I don't know how much longer I can hold it together."

Dr. Stephens looked at this remarkable man. She was delighted to have the chance to work with him. He was fascinating.


	50. Chapter 50

22

Aligned Design

Ch 50

"Dr. Wintermantle," Lisa, the student assistant called to Gleason as she headed to her first class. Gleason stopped and turned around.

"Yes?"

Lisa closed the space between them. "Dean Boyer was looking for you earlier. She said to ask you to see her as soon as possible."

Gleason looked at the clock in the hall. She had ten minutes before this class. She and the Dean would need more time than that. "Lisa would you let the Dean know that I'll be in her office directly after this class? It's only an hour."

"Sure, I'll tell her." Lisa turned and headed back down the hall.

Gleason figured she knew what the Dean wanted to talk over. She was missing too many classes. She had not intended to be gone all of last week. But, things happen. She would inform the Dean of her new position. The semester was half over; she would see it out and then be gone.

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Bobby walked from the elevators feeling like shit. His head hurt and he was carrying a low-grade anger. That damn shrink, Jesus, he hated talking about stuff. I thought you were supposed to feel better after talking with a psychiatrist, he said to himself. He honestly wished he could just go to the gym and run. Work out. Sweat out all the crap he was feeling. That would be good – run until you can't stand up. Maybe tonight, instead of the range. We'll see.

Sledge was walking from the coffee room as Bobby hung up his coat. "Hey, Goren, how they hangin'?" Bobby ignored him.

"Say, when the boss gets in, Bishop and I want to debrief you and Eames. Lots of good stuff came up over the weekend. You good for that?"

"Yeah, yeah. Where is Deakins?"

"He's not in yet. No idea where he is. Hey, Perkins, where's Deakins? You seen him?"

Bill Perkins walked over to the two tallest detectives at MCS. He told them about Deakins' daughter and her boyfriend.

"No shit. Oh man, is the doer still here? Is he alive?" Sledge asked.

"How is his daughter? Is she ok?" Bobby asked.

"Well, Deakins never made it back yesterday. He hasn't called in, so it's anyone's guess," Perkins said.

At that very moment, Jim Deakins rounded the corner from the elevators. He was walking fast and hard. The three men stepped out of his way as he strode past. Deakins went into his office and shut his door. They watched him elevator his phone. Without a word, the three detectives looked at one another and each moved to his desk.

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"Dean Boyer, Dr. Wintermantle is here to see you."

"Thank you. Ask her to come in, please."

Gleason suddenly felt as she had on the first day of the only primary school she had ever attended – curious and a wee bit frightened.

"Dr. Wintermantle, please sit down." Gleason sat across from the large desk. The Dean began, "Gleason, I was worried when I saw Brandon teaching your classes last week. We had no notification of illness, so I did not know what to think. Is everything all right?"

Gleason looked at the woman who had been so eager to hire her just a year ago. The woman who had encouraged her, had supported her. Now she looked at the woman who had let the regents pull her program out from under her – for no fault of her own.

"I was in Evanston, interviewing. I have accepted a position at Northwestern. I will be on staff in their antiquities department beginning in August."

Dean Boyer was impressed. Northwestern, huh? Northwestern held the honor of being the premier institution for ancient studies this side of the Atlantic. Gleason had landed this position so quickly. Boyer had to admit to a twinge of jealousy.

"My, my; congratulations, you certainly move quickly. What position will you hold, exactly?"

Gleason sensed the other woman's envy. Not vengeful by nature, but being a female human, Gleason replied, "Full professor, tenured. I'll be working interdisciplinary with the linguistics, history, classics and anthropology departments."

Boyer was having trouble hiding her green. Lucky bitch, she thought. "Well, this is quite a step up from our little university. They are lucky to have you. What will this mean for your relationship with that detective fellow?" The Dean was treading thin ice here; she had no business, and no legal right, making inquiries about family concerns. She did not care, however, the claws were out.

Gleason looked at her soon to be former boss and said, "I don't speak of my personal life at work. I do want to thank you, Dean Boyer, for giving me this position when I arrived in the States. It was generous of you to take me on. I have learned a great deal. Brookbine will always have a special place in my memories."

They smiled at each other. The Dean caught the use of 'memories' instead of 'heart.' Boyer didn't say anything, so Gleason said, "Will there be anything else?"

"Uh, no. Not at this time. Thank you for coming in Gleason. We have half a semester yet, so I'm sure we'll talk again."

Gleason nodded and stood up. She turned and started back to her office. She needed to get her bag and head to the restroom, quickly.

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Eames came around the desks with a stack of DVD cases and a folder.

"Hi, how'd it go with Dr. Stephens?" she asked her partner.

"Same. Hey, did you hear about Deakins' daughter?"

Actually, Eames had heard in the ladies' room this morning. "I know, isn't that something. Poor girl. She seems really young, immature for her age." As soon as it was out of her mouth, she regretted it.

Bobby looked at her questioningly, "You've met his daughter? When?"

Eames went red and looked down at the desktop.

"Eames, come on. When did you meet her?" Now he was intrigued.

Alex looked up and said softly, "All right. Last night. At the movies. Deakins and his wife and daughter were there. I ran into them. Ok?"

"You went to the movies by yourself?" He grinned at her; he had a hunch, but wanted to play.

She glared at him and hissed, "What do you think? He told me you know. So stop being so smug."

Bobby said nothing else, but he smiled. They worked in silence for about ten minutes and then Bobby said, "Say, would you ask Sledge for a copy of the briefing notes?" He looked up at her with a broad smile and she threw a pen at him. He ducked just as Deakins stepped from his office.

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Rodgers slid Navicky's and Pangborn's x-rays in large, insulated vinyl envelopes and hung them on the hook at the end of each body's table. She hung the files with her copies of their reports clipped inside on the ends as well. Goren would probably be down later.

At that moment, the courier delivered copies of the ME's reports to the eleventh floor of OPP. They made their way to Eames' desk.

"Here are the ME's reports." She handed one file to Bobby.

"Sledge, Bishop, Goren, Eames – conference room. Bring what you have," Deakins hollered out to the bullpen. The four detectives scrambled to gather notes, reports, files, and all the bits needed to debrief the boss and each other. They sensed he was not happy. Who would be?

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Canvettelli had gone out for breakfast goodies and left the two lovebirds to each other in his flat. He walked half a block and flipped open his cell.

"Yes, hello, I would like to report a robbery; probably grand larceny as well. And perpetuating a fraud. . . . May I speak to a Detective Eaves, or Ears or some such name? We helped each other earlier. . . . Yes, she and I have worked together in the past. That is correct. . . . I would prefer to speak directly with the lovely detective, if I may. Is she available? . . . I see. Well, if you would ask her to phone me back, I would appreciate it so much. Please have her call me at 212-555-0926. . . . I will try to keep the two robbers close to me until she tells me what to do with them. . . . Yes, thank you so much. Bye-bye."

Canvettelli flipped shut his phone and sashayed into Beirman's Bakery. That will show them, that bastard Jenese, him and his friend's sweet little piece of ass. Cann did twinge just a wee bit at the thought of the little man with the great goods. Mmmm, _so_ good! I would not mind another go with that one. Nevertheless, this will teach Jenny to lie to me.

Cann was feeling very proud of himself. Here he was, being a good citizen, apprehending two criminals. The Commissioner would surely want to meet him! And there might be a reward. And pictures in the paper! Interviewed on the news! An exposé in Newsweek! Oh, yes, it is good to do good.

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No one wanted to mention Deakins' daughter. The captain looked like he hadn't slept.

"All right, tell me something good," he said, elbows on the table. "Bishop, what do you have?"

"A lot, actually. Ok, we had a call yesterday from the Melbourne PD regarding a wallet found in one of the vehicles in that pileup. They ran it and it belongs to a Dominic Jenese. They called us because there was a pull on it from here." Bishop looked at Eames and continued, "That's one of the guys involved in that art heist, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. Was Jenese in that pileup?" Eames asked.

"Don't know. The fellow said there was one body in the car with three wallets. Here's the paperwork they faxed. Do you want to call them back, or should I?"

"I'll do it. Thanks." Bishop slid over the papers.

"What else?" Deakins asked.

Bishop continued, "Well, the stippling on the slugs from the two bodies found at the storage facility match a stolen registered Glock .22. The registered owner is deceased. That seems to be a dead end." She started to slide the paperwork over to Deakins but he shook his head and waved it away.

"What else?"

Eames started, "Well, we have copies of the surveillance video from the storage facility. There's about seventy-two hours of video to watch." Everyone looked at Goren.

"Yeah, I'll watch it. I like to watch," he said.

Everyone at the table, except Deakins, suppressed a smile; Deakins seemed distracted. Eames slid the DVD cases over to Bobby. An assistant stepped into the room and handed a message slip to Eames.

"What else?"

"Uhm, I want to go look at the bodies. Briefly, both vics died of two gunshots to the head. Navicky's tox screen was clean; Pangborn showed traces of cocaine. Navicky was stage-two lung cancer and probably didn't know it. That's it; nothing else related to the crime."

"What else?"

No one said anything. "Sledge, what have you got on the sailboat?"

"Uh, we checked out a false alarm yesterday. A roll and toss thought to be associated with the boat. Over-eager idiot masquerading as a Coast Guard officer called it in. It was nothing."

"What else?"

Sledge continued, "Later this morning, divers are going down to look at the boat sitting on the floor two miles off the pier. Chances are excellent it's the boat. After they bring it up and determine how it sank, we'll know who look for. Bishop and I are heading out to be there."

"This is a message from Canvettelli, the gallery owner where the missing art was scheduled to go. He wants to talk to me," Eames announced to the group.

"What else?"

No one said anything. No one looked at the boss. Deakins knew they knew what had happened. That kind of news travels fast. He looked down at the tabletop as they did.

"I know you are wondering. Julie is home, she'll heal. Her mother is a wreck, but is strong. The bastard that did it is in custody of the two-oh. He will be prosecuted fully. Now, go do something to move these two cases to the solve column."

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"Dr. Manlowe, it's Gleason Wintermantle."

"Gleason, my dear Gleason! I am so happy to hear from you. Extend my life, will you, and tell me you accept our offer."

Gleason smiled. "Yes, Dr. Manlowe, I accept your offer."

"Oh, my dear, dear girl, you have made an old man very happy. Now, I shall inform the others of our good fortune. Then, we must have you back soon so we may plan your assimilation. Fridays are good days to schedule meetings. Would you look at your schedule and determine which Friday would be good for you to meet with us? We need to meet soon so we can start scheduling and writing syllabi."

"Of course, Dr. Manlowe. I cannot this Friday, perhaps next?"

"That sounds good, my dear. I shall let the others know. Gleason, I am delighted to welcome you. We shall be in touch."

"Good-by Dr. Manlowe."

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"George, Jim Deakins. I, I need your help."

"Of course Jim. What's wrong?"

Deakins squeezed his eyes with his fingers and waited until he could speak without trembling. Dr. George Wang waited. He sensed this was a family situation.

"Uh, my youngest, Julie, she's fifteen. She, uh, she was raped by her boyfriend yesterday. I need someone to talk with her. George, she's out of control. We don't know what to do." Deakins didn't trust his voice to say anything more.

"Jim, is your daughter ok?"

"She has chlamydia and gonorrhea. The doctor said she's been sexually active for six months or so. She, she is a sweetheart one day and then this monster we don't even know the next. It's getting worse. Angie and I are worried about her. We don't know what to do."

"Do you want me to assess her? Or, do you want me to recommend someone?"

"George, you know more than anyone I know. Would you take a look at her? Try to help her?"

"Of course."


	51. Chapter 51

26

Aligned Design

Ch 51

"Damn it," Bobby mumbled under his breath. This set of scores was worse than last time. He needed to get serious about his shooting. This was not going to look good. He hoped Deakins had forgotten about that Thursday deadline.

Bobby cleaned the weapon he had used, returned it, checked out, and then headed to his vehicle. Once inside he checked his watch – yep, her class would be over. He opened his phone and hit speed dial number one, Gleason's number. "Hi, Honey, how are you?" He always asked this. He really wanted to know. Gleason was always on his mind, consciously or not.

"He was pleased, huh? I'm sure he was." Bobby's heart fell a bit when Gleason mentioned Manlowe's response to her accepting the position. He forced himself to sound happy for her.

"How about if I stop and get dinner? . . . Pizza? You want pizza? . . . No, that's great! Is there anything you don't want on it? . . . Ok, no anchovies. . . . Be careful, Sweetheart. . . . I'll see you at home. . . . I love you. . . . Bye-bye."

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Gleason hung up and smiled. He loves me. I love him. So, so much. Forever. She saved her work to her thumb drive and closed up her computer. She gathered up her books, the papers from her night class and stood up. She had to lean on the desk for a minute. Ohhh, gee that hurts. Gleason reached for her bag on the floor and walked to the restroom, again.

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"I think you two should just stay here again tonight. What do you say?" Jenny and Tilley had just returned to Canvettelli's flat with bags of Chinese take away.

Detective Eames had returned Canvettelli's phone call but couldn't reach him. She'd left two messages on his cell phone and had called the gallery twice. Pat or Chris or whatever his/her/its name was, had told her that Canvettelli was expected, but was not in yet. Both times.

Canvettelli, Jenny, and Tilley had spent the day cavorting. Their fun included not only each other, but toys, fruit and videos. Canvettelli had called his assistant at _Gal Larry_ and told him/her/it that he may be in later. Pat or Chris knew Canvettelli would not be in.

"Oh Cann, are you sure? We don't want to impose." Jenny dripped false sincerity and Cann saw right through it.

"Really, it is no problem. Besides, we do have fun, don't we?" he giggled.

"Well, we do have fun. If you insist, we will stay. You are too generous. Isn't he generous, Tilley?"

Palmer Tillman smiled sweetly at his lover's associate and his own new fuck-buddy and said, "Oh, yes, very generous. Very generous, indeed."

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"Bobby," Gleason walked from the bathroom to the living room where Bobby sat reading. He looked up and smiled. The smiled ended and he stood up.

"What's wrong?" He was to her in two strides; he took her arms in his hands and bent to look directly into her face. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"Bobby, I'm bleeding." She stepped into his arms. He hugged her and then stepped back to look at her.

"It's your period."

"No, this is a lot. My periods are light."

"What about the cramps you've had, it's just your period."

"No, this hurts. Bobby something is wrong."

He looked at her and his mind exploded. She didn't want this baby. She's done something. She's done something and now she's afraid because she's done something. What did you do, Gleason, what did you do?

Bobby didn't say anything and she looked up at him and did not know the man looking at her. He still held her arms and she tried to back away.

"Is this is what you wanted? It is, isn't it? You never wanted this baby. What did you do? What did you do, Gleason? You ended it, didn't you?" He let go of her arms, he spun away, and then he paced, arms flailing. "I can not believe you would do this! I can't believe this." Bobby grabbed his jacket and slammed the door on his way out.

Gleason moved to the sofa and huddled in the far corner. She was in shock. He thinks I. . . He thinks I. . . Oh, God, oh God. I didn't, I didn't, Baw--. Gleason began to gasp, she couldn't breathe. There was no air. Oh, my chest, get off, get off me, she thought. She was suddenly cold, numb. Gleason recognized that her heart was beating too slowly. Bawb--, the edges of her vision closed in and then everything went black.

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Bobby drove aimlessly. He drove and thought. The more he thought, the weaker he felt. His eyes filled and then spilled. Bobby pulled into a lot, put the car in park and cried. He put his head on his hands on the wheel and sobbed out loud. He wanted that baby. He wanted to have a family. He wanted to have a normal family, not like his own. He would spend time with his child. He would be a good father. He could be a good father. He wanted to be a father.

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I look good dead, she thought. She stood by the short bookcase, looking at herself on the sofa. She noticed the dark spot spreading beneath her. The last of the baby and his watery tomb ran from her body. She sat back against the top of the bookcase and crossed her arms. Bobby will be so sad. This will ruin him. He will never get over this. She shook her head. He loves me so much. Things were so good. She thought for a long moment. I cannot do this. I love him too much to have it end this way. Come home, Bobby, I need you.

She crossed the room to her body, Gleason's heart fluttered and she drew a weak breath. Wet, I'm wet. Oh, and it hurts! Ohhh, it hurts! Bawb--. . . and she slipped into a safe, unconscious state. Her heart beat as slowly as possible, just enough to keep her blood moving, taking oxygen to her brain. Her body protected itself by putting her into this unconscious state. She could not stay this way for long, however. Someone better come and find her soon. Bobby . . . ?

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Bobby sat in the lot. God his head hurt. He wanted a cigarette and a drink, not necessarily in that order. He wiped his face with both hands and blew his nose into his handkerchief.

One beer. One beer to get settled, he told himself. A beer and then a cigarette and then I'll go home. Yeah, that'll be good. Bobby put the car in drive and headed to Nixon's.

He was at the red light at Delancy and Chrissy. Turn right to go to Nixon's, turn left to head home. Bobby felt uneasy. He needed to go home. He wanted a drink and a cigarette, but he needed to go home. Go home, he told himself. Go home now. Turn left. Go home. He really felt as though something was wrong. He was at least thirty minutes from home at this hour. Go home. Bobby flipped open his cell and called home. It rang, And rang. She's not answering. Something is wrong. Go home. Bobby turned left and scrolled for Ted and Becky's number.

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"Hey, Ted, it's Bobby Goren. Say, can either you or Becky go across to my place and see if Gleason is ok? . . . Yeah, she's not been feeling well. I tried to call her and she's not answering. . . . Thanks. Ask her to call me, ok? . . . I'm on my way home now. Thanks Ted." Bobby flipped down the passenger side visor and pressed the button to start the flashing red and blue lights attached to it. He hit the gas and sped to his place.

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Ted and Becky Oelwein lived across the hall from Bobby; Ted was the building super and Becky was the manager. He and Becky crossed the hall and Ted knocked, "Gleason? Gleason are you ok?" They heard nothing and Ted opened the door with his master key. He went in first and headed straight for the bedroom. Becky saw Gleason slumped in the far corner of the sofa. She was unconscious and the cushion beneath her was dark with blood.

"Ted! She's here. Call 9-1-1!"

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He saw the lights from the corner. He stopped in the street and jogged to the bus, they were just bringing her out on a stretcher. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth and a blanket covered her body. An EMT held up an IV bag attached to her arm.

"What happened to her? What's wrong with her?" he asked.

"Bobby! Bobby, let them take care of her," Ted stepped to Bobby's side and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "They're going to take her in and see what's happened."

Bobby turned and looked at Ted, "Tell me what happened."

Ted knew what had happened. It had happened to him and Becky after they were first married. He didn't want to tell his friend because he wasn't sure. He was sure, but he didn't want to be sure. "Bobby they are going to take her to hospital and find out."

"Tell me what happened. Why did you call 9-1-1?" Bobby looked intensely at the other man. "Ted, tell me."

Ted looked down and then up, "She was unconscious on the sofa. The, the," he took a deep breath and then continued, "the cushion under her is bloody. I'm sorry, Bobby."

"We're going to Methodist. Anyone coming?" the attendant mentioned.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Ted, move my car." Bobby tossed Ted his keys and then he jumped into the back of the bus.


	52. Chapter 52

32

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Ch 52a

Ted had driven Bobby's car to the hospital; Becky had followed in their car. She brought Gleason's purse and had gotten her heart pills from the bathroom cupboard. They found him in the ER. Becky hugged him and told him she was sorry. Becky tried to speak with Gleason, but Gleason would not respond. Ted told Bobby he had removed the stained cushion from the sofa and would try to have it cleaned or recovered. Bobby thanked them both.

Bobby stayed through the night with Gleason, first in the ER and then in her room. She would not look at him, would not speak to him. She did not cry. She answered questions flatly when asked by a nurse or doctor, but otherwise said nothing. She was already in their system from the shooting, and only her address and phone had changed, so her admission was simple.

Bobby left Gleason's side just before dawn Tuesday morning. He thought she was asleep and bent to kiss her, but she moved away. He stepped back and told her he would return later.

Bobby drove to their apartment, showered, and dressed for work. Before he left, he called the university and left a message that Dr. Wintermantle was ill and her classes should be cancelled for Tuesday and Wednesday.

At work, he said nothing about what had happened. Eames had noticed that he was exceptionally quiet, preoccupied. Everyone left him alone. They figured he was in one of his moods. His cell phone range twice and he stood and walked away to take it both times. Mid-morning, he took the surveillance DVDs and his portfolio and went in to begin to watch.

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Eames finally caught Canvettelli on the phone. He sat in Interrogation Room 1. Eames asked Bobby if he wanted to sit in. He stopped the current DVD and flipped shut his portfolio and picked it up. They walked silently to IR1 and he sat beside Eames with his portfolio closed.

"Mr. Canvettelli, you remember Detective Goren." She immediately regretted saying that. The last time Goren and the gallery owner were together, Bobby nearly put the skinny guy through a door. To Bobby, she said, "Mr. Canvettelli called with information about who may have stolen the artwork scheduled for his gallery." Bobby nodded without looking at either of them.

"So, you know who stole the artwork?" Eames said to Canvettelli.

"Yes I do."

Eames waited. She glanced at Bobby who sat looking at the tabletop. "Ok. So, who stole the paintings?"

"Is there a reward?"

"What?" asked Eames, incredulously.

"Is there a reward? I know who stole the paintings. My assistance will help you solve this crime. So, is—there—a—reward?" Canvettelli did a little headshake as he sat back and crossed his arms.

Without warning, Bobby was on his feet, knocking the chair back, off its legs, "You goddamn sonofabitch! Tell her who stole the fucking paintings!" He slammed his hand flat onto the tabletop.

Eames and Canvettelli both jumped and Deakins was out of the observation room and inside the interview room in two heartbeats.

"Goren! Now!"

Bobby stood, breathing hard. He looked at Eames and then looked at Deakins. His hand stung. What, what just happened?

"Now! Detective," Deakins shouted.

Bobby moved to the door Deakins held open and stepped into the hallway. The boss pulled it shut and Bobby leaned against the wall. He wiped a hand over his face and looked at his other, stinging hand.

Deakins was livid, "Are you out of your goddamn mind! What the hell was that? You cannot go off on a witness like that. Jesus Christ, Goren, this is the same guy who threatened us with a suit the first time you verbally attacked him. Are you _trying_ to get bumped back to patrol?" Deakins took two steps away from his detective, turned and put his hands on his face.

Bobby was not sure he knew what he had done. Apparently, he said something he should not have. He looked at Deakins, but did not say anything.

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Dr. Wiley sat across from Gleason. Gleason would not look at her.

"Do you understand what happened, Gleason?" The doctor watched the other woman closely.

Gleason nodded.

"You can still have children. It won't be easy, but – "

"I don't want children," she said softly.

Dr. Wiley was not surprised, but she could tell that Gleason was not upset about the miscarriage; rather, she seemed numb. Dr. Wiley would have Dr. Fairchild, the women's health psychiatrist, talk with Gleason before discharging her. "We'll get you on birth control pills to regulate your cycle." She paused and then continued, "And to prevent what you don't want."

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Canvettelli went six shades of white beyond pale. He stood backed up against the wall, one hand over his mouth, the other over his crotch. Canvettelli began to hyperventilate. Eames guided him to a seat and made him bend over with his head between his legs. For some reason, it made her squeamish to see him this way. "Breath slowly, Mr. Canvettelli, breath slowly. You'll be fine. Breathe slowly." She stood over him with a gentle hand between the man's impossibly narrow shoulders. Canvettelli nodded and Eames had to look away.

Deakins entered the room after sending Bobby to his desk with orders to just sit, do not leave. "Is he ok?" Deakins asked, nodding to the man bent over looking at his own crotch.

Eames nodded.

"Mr. Canvettelli, are you all right?" Deakins asked.

Canvettelli sat up, gasping. He weakly waved a hand at them. Then he nodded. The captain and detective watched the man get himself together.

"Please, please, I'll tell you anything you want. I am sorry I was being tenacious. I will tell you all I know. Do not let that man at me. Please. I am sorry!" Canvettelli kept looking furtively at the door, expecting Bobby to storm back in and finish his assault.

Eames and Deakins shared a look. "All right, Mr. Canvettelli, I'm going to make sure Detective Goren is caged and you tell Detective Eames everything you know."

"I want an escort out when I am finished here. I don't want that beast to even look at me." Canvettelli's eyes went wide with a realization, "Oh, oh he, he doesn't know where I live, does he? Oh my God, what if he comes for me in the night! What if he overpowers me? I am small, slight, slim, and he's, he's so, oh he's so _big_!"

If Deakins hadn't been so pissed at Goren, he would have shared Eames' smile.

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"Gleason?" Dr. Fairchild stood at the foot of Gleason's bed. She turned, looked and then looked away.

Fairchild recognized it immediately. Apathy. "Gleason, I'm Dr. Wendy Fairchild, staff psychiatrist. Dr. Wiley suggested we talk. How about if you and I go someplace where we can get some tea and talk. Ok?"

Without looking at the doctor, Gleason slid her feet into the slippers they had given her and stood up. She came around the foot of the bed and followed the good doctor.

Gleason sat at the table. Fairchild set down two mugs of tea, and then she sat. Gleason still had not made eye contact. She had not said a word.

"Gleason, Dr. Wiley is concerned because you are not reacting to anything. Why do you think that is?"

Gleason said nothing.

"How do you feel about the miscarriage?"

"There was no miscarriage. I wasn't pregnant."

Dr. Fairchild recognized ADS, apathetic denial syndrome. It was common in these circumstances and would pass in time, in a loving, supportive environment. "Why do you think you were not pregnant?"

Gleason did not respond.

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	53. Chapter 53

38

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Ch 53

"Now you understand, Mr. Canvettelli, you cannot let on to Jenese and Tillman that you are working with us. Are you certain that they are not violent? I don't need to worry about one of them hurting you? I certainly don't want to put you at risk. Undercover work is not for everyone." Eames was making sure Canvettelli would cooperate without screwing up.

"Oh, no, Detective, those two boys may like it a little rough at times, but violent – don't you worry your pretty little head." Canvettelli dismissed the notion with a head toss, a tsk-tsk, and a wave of hand.

"All right, you just go on like always. I'm sorry I cannot tell you when we'll be by to pick them up, but you understand how busy we are here." Eames stood and Canvettelli followed her lead.

"Of course, dear; this is important work you do here. What with keeping your own under control, it is a wonder you can get anything done for we poor citizens. Well, I shall be on my way. I look forward to the excitement when you come by. Oh, I can't _wait_ to see the look on Jenny's face when you slap on the cuffs, as you say." He wrapped his arms around himself and gave himself a delicious hug. Detective Eames smiled, nodded and pulled open the door.

"This officer will escort you to the elevators." Eames then said to the officer, "Make sure no harm comes to Mr. Canvettelli here. He's an important associate of the NYPD."

The officer looked at Eames as if she had lost her mind. Eames smiled and nodded.

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Eames saw Bobby with two screens lit up. He was standing, one arm across his chest, the other bent at the elbow, fingers on his lips.

"Find anything good?" she asked.

Bobby turned and said with mild excitement, "Yeah. Jenese shot Navicky and Pangborn. Watch this, see, I can show footage of a single event shot from two cameras at the same time. Let me back up these – "

Bobby had a remote in each hand; he clicked away, jockeying the images, and then said, "Here, this is it. See, this screen shows Navicky and Pangborn driving up. They stop, they get out, they walk back to the trunk, they open the trunk, they open the unit, they go inside, they . . ."

Bobby articulated every bit of action on the screen and Eames looked up at him. She wanted to say, "I can see what they are doing," but she let him go on. He sounded better.

Bobby continued, "See, they take out a crate, it won't go in, they set it down, they fool around with the back seat, they try again, they – "

"Bobby, you are making me crazy. I can see what they are doing," Eames was sorry, but she couldn't take another second of his narration.

Bobby looked down at her, and nodded, he put up his two hands, palms out, his 'no more' action, then crossed his arms again. Together they watched the two men unload the crates.

"Ok, here, right here. Watch this. You have to kind of look from one screen to the other. This is great." Bobby clicked one of the remotes at the second screen and Eames watched a blue car enter the image. She watched Jenese exit the vehicle, sidle back along the end of the unit, saw him peek around the corner, and then saw the two puffs of smoke. She immediately looked at the first screen and saw Pangborn drop to the ground. She glanced back to the second screen, saw Jenese shoot again, two more puffs of smoke, and then she glanced at the first screen and saw Navicky drop.

Together they watched as Jenese came around the corner, kick at both bodies, return to his car, back it up around the corner of the unit and begin to shift crates from the one car to his. They saw Jenese move the roll of hose from his trunk to the back seat.

Bobby paused both screens. "Well?"

"This is superb, Bobby! Wait till a jury sees this."

Just then Deakins walked in, "Everything ok?" he asked.

"Wait till you see what Bobby found," she told the boss.

"Ok, impress me," Deakins said to Bobby.

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Late Tuesday afternoon, Bobby left work and drove home. He changed his clothes and then he packed panties, an undershirt, a top, socks, tennis shoes and jeans into a bag and walked to his vehicle. Bobby drove to the hospital not knowing how he got there. He parked in the visitor's lot and took the bag to her room.

Gleason was sitting in the chair, looking out the window. She turned when he walked in and then turned back to the window.

"I brought you some clothes," he said softly. He set the bag on the bed. She got up, took the bag and went into the bathroom. Bobby crossed to the window and looked out.

"She real sad," said the woman in the other bed.

Bobby turned. "She gonna be like dis for a while, ya know? Dis her first one? It real hard witt you first one. It real hard evy time, ya know?"

Bobby nodded and turned back to the window. He looked out over the tarred roof of another wing. Empty plastic soda bottles, papers, and broken glass littered the roof's surface.

Gleason came out of the bathroom and went back to the chair. Bobby went to her, wanting to touch her, talk with her. He went behind the chair to stroke her head, her shoulder. Gleason stood and moved away. She stood in front of the window, her arms across her chest.

A nurse notified Dr. Wiley when she saw Bobby enter Gleason's room. Dr. Wiley came in, looked at Bobby and said, "May I have a word? Gleason, we'll be right back." Gleason didn't move.

Bobby followed the doctor into the hallway. Dr. Wiley began, "I wanted to speak with you about your wife's –"

"She's, she's not my wife. We live together, but . . .," Bobby said softly, not continuing, waving away the rest of the words.

"I see. Well, I want to speak with you about Gleason's situation. I stopped in this morning, but you had gone."

"I had to get to work."

"Let's go find a place to sit, shall we?" Dr. Wiley led Bobby to the small conference room where Dr. Fairchild and Gleason had spoken. "Can I get you anything, Mr. –"

"Goren, Detective Robert Goren." He put out his hand and the doctor took it. "No, thank you."

Bobby waited for the doctor to sit and then he did. She began, "I asked Dr. Fairchild to speak with Gleason this morning. Dr. Fairchild is the women's health psychiatrist here at Methodist. After speaking with Gleason, she said Gleason has ADS, apathetic denial syndrome. Dr. Fairchild said it is fairly common in these kinds of situations and will pass in time. She indicated that an understanding, loving environment is needed to make that happen." Bobby nodded.

Dr. Wiley continued, "However, I think something else is going on. I am concerned about Gleason's complete lack of affect. She seems to have no emotive response whatsoever and appears to have an amplified level of denial. She refuses to believe she was pregnant. How was she at home, did she think she might be pregnant?"

Bobby thought a moment and then answered, "She refused to consider the possibility."

"Do you have any idea why she feels this way?"

Bobby's head tilted left, his right hand rubbed the knuckles of his left. "Gleason's early childhood was – unusual. Her image of family is corrupted. She grew up in the UK and children's services there removed her at age seven. She spent several years in a home for children; a family adopted her at age nine, and she emancipated in her early teens. Gleason has been on her own nearly all of her life. The idea of a family is frightening to her; alien to her."

Dr. Wiley nodded. "That might explain the denial, the denunciation of her pregnancy. What about her lack of emotion? Her abject indifference to interactions and her surroundings is unusual."

Bobby did not know how much to tell about Gleason's past. He knew Gleason had developed this technique of shutting down, shutting out when Clive would burn her. Just say it, he told himself.

"She, uh, Gleason was horribly abused by a former lover. He, he burned a design into her back with hydrochloric acid. It went on for months. She told me that she endured it by retreating inside her mind, self-induced catatonia. She was able to go in and out at will. It kept her alive."

Dr. Wiley was fascinated. "This is incredible, detective; and it explains everything. Gleason is protecting herself against this current reality by hiding behind the emotional blockade." The doctor thought a moment and then said, "So, Gleason will recover physically and emotionally. The physical healing will be within a week or two. Her emotional recovery may take longer. Are you prepared to help her through this?"

Bobby looked at the physician and said, "Of course."

Gleason still stood looking out the window, her arms wrapped across her chest, when Bobby returned, some thirty minutes later. He stood by silently. Gleason had not spoken a word to him since he had screamed his accusations at her less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Are you ready to go home?" the nurse said, coming into the room. She was too perky and spoke to Gleason's back. "We'll have a transport up here shortly. You need to see Dr. Wiley in two weeks; the appointment is on this card. These prescriptions need filled today, as you need to take the one at bed and in the morning for seven days. This second one is your new heart medication; I guess the other was no longer effective. And, the third script is the birth control pill; take it once everyday. Do you know how to use the birth control pills? Have you taken them before?" Gleason continued to ignore her.

"We'll figure it out," Bobby said softly. The nurse turned to him and nodded.

"This is your shirt; we disposed of the clothing that could not be cleaned. These pamphlets explain what Dr. Wiley told you." At this, the nurse turned to Bobby and spoke to him softly, "No intercourse for at least one week after all her symptoms subside. You know, no more bleeding, no more cramping." The nurse turned back to Gleason and held out the appointment card, prescription slips, pamphlets and bag, expecting Gleason to turn and take them. Gleason did not even acknowledge her.

"I'll take those," Bobby said.

The nurse handed the items to Bobby and nodded, knowingly. "It won't be long."

Bobby folded the prescription slips and slipped them and the appointment card into his money clip.

"You might want to go get the car and bring it around to the front. We'll be down in a few minutes. Just put on your blinkers when you pull up."

Bobby looked at Gleason's back, hesitating, wanting to say something. What could he say? He said every wrong thing last night. He turned and left with the bag containing her shirt, he put the pamphlets inside.

Bobby stood at the elevator with a young man and an older fellow who might have been his father. They were chatting about "his hair, so much hair!" Bobby's heart broke all over again.

"Your wife up here, too?" the young man asked Bobby.

"No."

"Ah, girlfriend, then. Really doesn't matter any more. Babies come regardless, huh?" The guy had no idea.

Bobby just looked away, praying for the elevator to arrive.

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They didn't speak. They moved through the small apartment, staying away from each other, not looking at each other; two lone satellites in a barren universe. Bobby slept in his chair, Gleason slept in the bed.

Gleason barely ate. She slept. She sat and thought. She did not cry. She tried to work on her book, but she couldn't hold a thought. She forced her mind to go blank, like she did when Clive would burn her, and afterward when it hurt. Gleason felt hollow, a shell. Her heart was empty; she made her mind be empty. Her soul was ice. Time passed so slowly.

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	54. Chapter 54

46

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Ch 54

Wednesday morning, Bobby told Dr. Stephens about the miscarriage. He told her how he had accused Gleason of ending the pregnancy. He told her how sorry he was. He told her this is why he had to get control of his anger. His guilt hung on him like wet wool – cold and heavy. It was so hard to talk about it. Bobby cried and cried. Dr. Stephens was kind, gentle; she did not press, did not push. She let him talk and let him cry. He needed to do both for his own physical and mental health. Their session lasted less than an hour.

Brandon called their apartment and asked Gleason if she was all right. She told him she would be back Thursday morning. She gave him no explanation. She owed that university nothing. Becky, from across the hall, stopped by to see how she was, to see if she wanted to talk. She did not.

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Eames watched Bobby walk from the elevators. He walked slowly; he looked like he had been crying. What is going on with him, she wondered. He hung up his coat and then sat, flipping open his portfolio.

"Bobby, can I get you some coffee?" Eames asked softly.

He just shook his head, not looking at her. Eames wanted to ask him what was wrong; but, to be honest, she was afraid of him. She did not want to say or do anything to upset him, to make him fly into a rage. Eames watched as he wiped his hands over his face and then shudder a huge sigh. She needed to know what was going on. She turned and walked to Deakins' office.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked at the open door.

"Sure, what's up?"

Eames entered, pulled the door shut behind her, and sat across from the boss. "Bobby looks like he's been crying. He's back early from Dr. Stephens. Is there something I should know?"

Deakins did not know what to tell her, so he told her the truth. "Gleason had a miscarriage two nights ago."

"Oh, no." Eames was truly sorry. She could only imagine what Gleason must be feeling. What Bobby must be feeling. Eames could not imagine surviving a miscarriage when she was carrying her nephew for her sister and brother-in-law. It was her greatest joy, to be pregnant. She had never felt so alive.

"Uh, don't say anything to him about it. Don't say anything to, to Sledge, either. Let's keep this quiet, ok? Bobby's pretty private about things."

"Of course, of course." Eames sat for a moment. "Why is he here? Why was he here yesterday? He should be home with her."

"I don't know. I don't think things are good at home. This may end it for them. God I hope not. They've been through so much, now this." Eames and Deakins sat silently for a minute. "Alex, keep an eye on him. Keep him safe."

Eames nodded and returned to her desk.

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Bobby did not look up as she sat. "Did he tell you?" he asked.

Eames looked at him and said, "Bobby, I'm so sorry."

He looked up, nodded and put up his hands as if to say, no more. He squeezed his eyes with his left hand and sniffed. "Uh," he cleared his throat, "uh, this came in while you were with Deakins." He handed her a fax sheet. "It's the information on the car with Jenese's and Tillman's wallets. The car was registered to Dominic Jenese. The content list is included as well. Notice the roll of wired hose. And, the Melbourne PD is going to email photos of the artwork found in the truck and back seat of the car."

Eames looked up with raised eyebrows. "So, the paintings have been found. The roll of hose – what do you want to bet it's the same kind of hose as the piece that you found with the bodies?"

Bobby nodded and added, "Rodgers said she found DNA from two individuals inside the piece of hose, one matching Jenese. I bet the other belongs to the artist, Meraux Peignoir. I'll call the ME and ask her to run a compare of the second DNA with that of the artist. If it's a match, we will have Jenese on three murders. And, push another case to the solve column." Bobby said all of this steadily. He lacked his subtle sense of excitement that he usually exhibited when the pieces started to fall into place in a case.

Eames smiled at her partner, "This is very good news. Here's more. We got a full statement from Canvettelli yesterday. He implicated himself and he doesn't even know it. Deakins called Carver who is bringing over warrants for Canvettelli, Jenese and Tillman."

Bobby nodded and asked, "Where are those three? Aren't they going to run?"

"No, that's the beauty of this. Canvettelli thinks he's helping us. I told him he was to keep the other two at his place. He thinks he's working undercover for us. He's a real piece of work. You saw him."

Bobby nodded again. "So, we execute the warrants on all three of them at Canvettelli's apartment. What are the charges?"

"Conspiracy, grand theft, and insurance fraud, to start."

Bobby nodded and said, "Well, we can get Jenese for Peignoir's, Navicky's and Pangborn's murders. Carver will want to see the ME's report and that footage probably, before he issues those."

Eames smiled, albeit sadly, "Well, we just have to go pick 'em up. Carver said the warrants will be here before noon."

Bobby nodded.

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Carver arrived three hours later with a warrant for the arrests of Canvettelli, Jenese and Tillman. "Good work, detectives."

"We may need three more," Deakins said. "Detective Goren found the footage of Jenese shooting Navicky and Pangborn. Wait till you see it."

"And the ME is checking the second DNA in the hose against that of the painter. If it's a match, and I believe it will be, we will have Jenese on that one as well," Bobby added.

"Well, well, Detective, good work again and again," Carver said. "As soon as we have confirmation, I'll call my office and start that paperwork."

"We're putting together the arrest team now. Those three will be in custody within the hour. They're at Canvettelli's apartment," Deakins explained.

"Hopefully, arraignment will take place tomorrow morning." Carver noticed that Goren and Eames were not saying much. Goren, in particular, was being reticent. At this point in a case, he was up front, pontificating on the fine points of the case. Carver saw the tall detective sitting, slouched in his seat, not really listening. Odd.

"Ok, let's go get them." Deakins and his two best detectives headed out.

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Canvettelli fell back gasping, "Oh, oh, I am so sore. I cannot take anyone else."

"You silly boy, you've had everyone here. Unless you want to try and take yourself!" Jenese found himself hilarious.

Tilley lay back thinking how good Cann was. How tight. How big his mouth was and how it pulled on Tilley's cock. He really liked Cann. He loved Jenny, of course, and loved what Jenny did . . . oh, but this Cann – oh!

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They approached quietly, no sirens, no lights. The building manager stood by with the master key. Eames took the lead with Deakins as Goren was still without his weapon. Bobby felt impotent. He stayed back, behind the uniforms. He didn't even want to be there. He wanted to be home.

Slowly, quietly, they made their way up the steps.

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The three men lay quietly for a few minutes. Not moving, just resting. Then, Canvettelli felt himself begin to move. "Oh, oh, oh! What do you know! My little man is on the go." It was an old gay nursery rhyme. "He's going, all by himself. Look!"

Tilley and Jenny rolled over and watched Canvettelli's flaccid penis begin to fill and stiffen. Cann himself lifted up, leaned back on his elbows, and watched his member jerk alive. The three men watched, enthralled, like boys watching a worm.

Tilley had to admit, it was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. It was as if Cann's rod was alive. He watched as it lengthened, thickened, firmed. It darkened as it hardened. Oh, God.

Cann began to breathe heavily. The three men watched as his tool curved slightly and begin to rise up, fully erect, a snake out of a basket. Tilley and Jenny began to harden watching the show.

"Somebody, suck it. Suck it, will you," Cann said deeply. Tilley fell onto Cann's legs, took it into his mouth and sucked hard. Jenny moved around behind Tilley and entered him, pulling on Tilley's pole and bag. They went at each other working each other's goods. Building, building, oh, oh, yeah, like that.

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The building manager unlocked the door and then he was ushered away. He was told to go back downstairs. Slowly, quietly, Eames entered, then Deakins, weapons drawn. Uniformed officers filed in silently behind them, spreading through the living room, checking the kitchen, the closet.

The three playmates could be heard from the bedroom. It sounded like they were just about ready to finish something big and in a big way. Deakins and Eames were just outside the bedroom door; Deakins put up a hand in hesitation and waited for the sound of climax. Three male voices sounded in an orgasmic chorus and Deakins signaled the go.

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Gleason sat at the kitchen table. She had made a pot of tea and had poured a cup. Three hours later, she and the tea were still at the table, and both were cold. Her shivering brought her around. She shook her head and stood, intending to get the throw from the back of the sofa.

She walked into the living room, crossed to the sofa and saw the missing cushion. It was like a missing tooth in a smile. She stopped short and couldn't move another step. She remembered everything. The pain, the flooding, telling Bobby, him holding her, him looking at her. Then he screamed at her. He slammed the door. She remembered curling up in the corner of the sofa. Then she couldn't breathe. Her chest had felt heavy. She knew what was happening. She had felt that same weight when her heart had stopped in the hospital while she was recovering from the shooting.

Gleason recalled seeing herself from over there. She turned her head and looked at the short bookcase. Yes, she had leaned on it, looking at herself on the sofa. How could she, how could she . . . be over there and over there at the same time?

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Deakins opened the door quietly and he and Eames, and the four officers with them stood, with weapons trained on the three revelers, and watched them finish. Eames could have died. She looked down, red as a beet. The police couldn't tell where the orgasms quit and the squeals of fear began. Jenese saw them first and squealed out loud. Then Tilley looked up and he squealed, Canvettelli kept coming and finally he looked over and then he squealed.

The three lovers had an audience of six with weapons drawn.

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Angie Deakins sat in the paneled waiting room. Dr. George Huang's private practice office was in a brownstone on Westwood. Her daughter Julie was inside, talking to the NYPD psychiatrist. George was a good friend and worked with the Special Victims Unit. The hospital had reported Julie's rape to the SVU; Stabler and his new partner had shown up in the ER. Jim Deakins had spoken to his associates and they assured him Matt Baldwin would not get off easy.

Angie was exhausted. She was afraid to sleep for fear Julie would leave again. Jim had rigged Julie's bedroom door so it would not lock. Angie slept with their bedroom door open. Jim slept on the sofa at the bottom of the steps; he would awaken should Julie come down the steps.

Angie was concerned for Jim's health. She knew how worried he was about Julie. She also knew about the pressure to increase his department's solve rate. Angie made Jim an appointment for a complete physical.

Julie had retreated into herself and had stopped eating. She still wore the same baggy sweat pants and sweatshirt she had put on after coming home from hospital, two days ago. She had not bathed. Angie made Julie drink juice, just to keep her hydrated. At least her little girl obliged with that.

Nearly an hour later, the door opened and George stood by while Julie exited. "Thank you again for talking with me, Julie. Your mom and I are going to talk a while. I'd like you to go with Chi Lyn, here. She's going to take you to the library. You can read or use the computer in there if you like. I'll see you again."

George handed off Julie to the lovely Asian woman who seemed to materialize from thin air. She watched as her daughter followed Chi Lyn down the hall. George motioned for Angie to step into his office.

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Eventually everyone was dressed and cuffed.

"Why are you cuffing me, Detective?" Canvettelli asked Eames as she slid them shut. He whispered, "Is this part of the ruse? Don't worry, I'll play along."

"No, Mr. Canvettelli, you are under arrest, too."

He spun as best he could, and tried to look at her with eyes and mouth wide open. "What! I am not under arrest! I helped you! I was undercover! You cannot arrest me. Detective, I am a victim here! Detective, please, take these off!"

"Get him out of here," Eames said to one of the uniformed.

Canvettelli could be heard squawking all the way down the stairs.

Bobby wandered into the bedroom with his arms clasped behind his back. He looked around but did not say anything. He had no idea why he was even there.

Deakins and Eames looked at him.

"Bobby, why don't you go home? Go be with Gleason," Deakins said.

"Is she still in hospital?" Eames asked.

Bobby shook his head. He looked at his watch; it was just past one. "I'll ride back with Eames. Then, I am going to the range. If that's ok," he said softly.

"Then go home. She needs you, Bobby."

Bobby could not look at either of them.


	55. Chapter 55

49

Aligned Design

Ch 55

Bobby sat at the kitchen table, doing nothing, just sitting. Gleason came down the hall and stopped at the hall closet. Bobby stood up and stepped from the kitchen. He watched her take her wrap and adjust it around her shoulders. She bent for her shoulder bag on the floor behind his chair. Her hand was on the knob when he said softly, "Gleason," she stopped and he continued, "Honey, where are you going?"

She stood for a moment and then said, "I'm going outside, Bobby."

"Let me go with you. Ok?"

She turned and looked at him. He saw such sadness. "I'm going outside." She shut the door behind her.

Bobby sat in his chair in the gathering gloom with his right leg bent at the knee, his foot on the seat under him. His right elbow rested on his right knee and he chewed on his thumb. In all of their troubles, in all of his anxiety since they had been together, Bobby had never felt this kind of emptiness. He knew this just wasn't from having lost the baby, this emptiness was from what he had lost of Gleason; this was what his accusation had cut from her, from him.

Dr. Stephens had said Gleason would feel a pain greater than his. She said Gleason would feel a hollowness that he would have to help heal. But Bobby was not certain he could ever get back what they had had. He was so angry with himself. Angry at his anger. Where did this come from? Why did he go off like that? What was wrong with him? He loved Gleason above everything else in life. How could he say such a thing to her – accuse her of ending their child? He hated himself.

The gloom became darkness. Bobby got up, put on his shoes, grabbed his jacket, phone and keys and headed out. He wanted to find her. He stood outside his building and called her cell. He knew she wouldn't answer. He turned left, south, and headed down the block toward Nero's, a coffee shop. She might not have gone far.

He pulled open the door and saw her at a table with a pot of tea. She didn't see him come in. He crossed to her and she looked up as he pulled out the chair, then she looked away. She had been crying. Bobby reached for her hand and she slid it off the table, into her lap. Then she sat back, away from the table.

"Gleason," he started softly. He didn't know what else to say. There were no words to undo what he had done, what he had said.

The server started over and then stopped; she recognized the look, the posture, the pain. He's not going to want anything I can offer, she thought, and returned to her spot behind the counter.

Bobby squeezed his eyes with his right hand. "Gleason, I'm, I'm sorry."

Gleason was not strong enough to look at him. "Gleason . . . I am so sorry for thinking that you . . . that –," he couldn't finish. He looked down, searching for words and found none. "Gleason, I don't know what to say."

She looked up at him and saw him hurting. "Then what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do, Bobby?"

"Say you forgive me. Say you love me. Gleason, love me again." He hitched a sob. Pain was written on his face, in his eyes.

She looked at the man she would love for the rest of her life. Her heart filled, her soul warmed. Gleason moved her right hand from her lap and reached for his hand. He took her hand and held tight. His breathing quickened.

"I didn't do anything, Bobby. It happened by itself. I didn't do anything."

"Oh, God, Gleason, I know. I know. I am so sorry." They sat looking at each other for a long time.

Finally, Bobby said, "Let's go home."

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They both flew to Chicago the following Thursday afternoon. Gleason introduced Bobby to her friends at the Hilton Garden Inn in Evanston where they stayed. Antonio and Loomis took Friday off and helped Bobby look for an apartment for Gleason. Loomis had a cousin who was a realtor and the four of them spent the day in search of some place nice. Antonio and Loomis talked Bobby's ears off; speaking so highly of their Dr. W. Bobby listened, smiled and was happy these people loved her.

Gleason spent the day with her new colleagues, working on class schedules, course alignments and configuring syllabi content. Malcolm Conway sat across from her, stood beside her, and was always near her. Gleason felt his eyes on her. It made her uncomfortable.

That evening, a dinner in Gleason's honor, welcoming her to Northwestern, was held at the Athletic Club in downtown Chicago. Faculty of the four departments that Gleason would be shared among was invited, as were their spouses. Gleason proudly introduced Bobby to everyone. Everyone was enchanted to meet her beau. Gleason introduced Bobby to Malcolm. Bobby and Malcolm eyed each other and Bobby immediately knew the other man's intentions. It made him uncomfortable.

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Bobby and Lewis, his best friend, removed the second-hand furniture from Gleason's old apartment near campus. Lewis acquired a pickup truck and they took the furnishings to St. Michael's Men's Shelter. Father Picard was delighted to accept the items.

Gleason bagged up the few bits of linen – two sets of sheets, a few hand and bath towels, dishcloths and tea towels – and sent them along. She boxed up all the nonperishable foods and sent them as well. The dishes, cutlery, pots and pans went, too. She got back her deposit and made a gift of it to the shelter. Father Picard teared up.

It took less than two hours to remove any sign that she had ever lived there. Bobby was glad to return the keys to the manager.

Lewis offered to store Gleason's old Volvo. She just needed to keep it insured. He would cover it with a fitted cotton tarp and keep it in his heated garage. Lewis promised to drive it for an hour every week and maintain the fluids. Secretly, Lewis hoped to be Bobby's best man when that day came.

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Nineteen-year old Matt Baldwin received, the maximum sentence – fifteen to twenty-five years at Rikers for the rape of the minor, Julie Deakins, aged fifteen. He received an additional ten for the abduction and five more for the assault. The terms were to be served consecutively. He would be eligible for parole when he was nearly fifty. Jim Deakins was sorry it was not longer.

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Estella was quiet that first Saturday after Gleason's miscarriage. She saw that the pretty green, leading to yellow, ending in white colors were gone from Gleason's aura. She saw the pervasive blue. Estella knew that deh preddy ladee was sad, berry sad. She could see that way deep down, in a place where Gleason was not even aware of, Gleason had wanted that baby. Had the pregnancy continued, Gleason would have embraced the idea. As her belly would have grown, so would her love and excitement for this baby.

The baby had been a boy. He was a little boy with the curliest dark brown hair that would show red in the sunlight. His eyes were the ice blue of his maternal grandfather's eyes. He would have freckles like his mom and he would have his father's nose, height, and intellect. He would be a happy, good, kind child. He would have been loved.

But, that baby was an angel now. He would show up occasionally. His grandma could see him. She would talk with him, too. He would make her laugh. Everyone thought she was sick in the head, but he knew she could see him. He loved his Gran and she loved him. He was with her often. The man who would have been his dad was sad when the little boy's Gran would ask the man to bring her books that she could read to that little boy who came to visit.

The little boy did not understand why the man who would have been his dad, and the lady who would have been his mom could not see him as his Gran could see him. They could not see him when he played with the leaves that blew in the park. He did not understand why they would not put him in the swing when they were there. He would stand and push the empty swing as they walked by. He ran in the shadows, and danced in the sunlight. He splashed in the rain. He whispered with the trees at night. But they could not see him, could not hear him.

The little boy would visit the man and the lady in their sleep. The man could see him while the man was asleep and he would play with the little boy. They would chase and the man would lift him up high. They would laugh. The man was so happy when the little boy visited the man's sleep. The man always woke happy and calm.

The lady's sleep was less fun. She was always afraid in her sleep. And sad. Many times the lady could not find him. She would look and look, but she would not see him. The little boy did not visit the lady so much.

He watched over the man and the lady who would have been his mom and dad, though. He made sure they were happy and safe.

Estella could see so many things with her gift. She looked at Bobby for just a few minutes as he headed out the door that Saturday morning. But she could see that his pain over their loss was great. Her Midder Bobby felt things so deeply. Midder Bobby would recover, but his colors had changed slightly. He still had the gold of great love and silver of great intellect. But his bands were not as deep, nor as wide. This loss stole a great deal from him. He would recover, but he was a changed man.

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Julie Deakins saw a psychiatrist twice a week. She and her parents saw a psychiatrist together every other week. Julie was on a first course of antidepressants. Her mother had a prescription as well.

Julie asked to transfer to another school. Jim and Angie spoke to her shrink who said it was probably a good idea. Angie drove her daughter to the new school each day and picked her up afterward. Julie's grades came up and she made new friends.

Jim Deakins had another bout with Bell's palsy. This time it was worse and lasted longer. His blood pressure and cholesterol were elevated and he was put on medication for both.

The solve rate in his department slowly improved and the brass upstairs backed off a bit. Deakins was going to take his wife and daughter on a real vacation this year. They all needed to get away.

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Eames and Sledge continued to grow together. He still kept his place and she kept hers. They lived at her place three weeks out of every four. Sledge gained ten pounds eating Eames' cooking.

Sledge and Linda, his ex-wife, continued their friendship. They met for their weekend in Toronto as they had for years and would for years to come. Sledge and Eames spent a long weekend in Las Vegas. This would become an annual event as well.

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Bobby continued to see Dr. Stephens. He worked through so many issues with her help. Over time, his anger dissipated. He had fewer flares and was better able to extinguish them. Eventually, he was seeing Dr. Stephens every other Wednesday morning.

He was back at the shooting range and his score began to improve. Six weeks after having his weapon taken from him, he got it back. It felt wonderful, he felt complete. His and Eames' solve rate averaged seventeen days, the lowest at MCS.

Gleason moved to Chicago. She set up life in a small, cozy, furnished apartment Loomis' cousin found for her near campus. Dr. Manlowe arranged her class schedule to allow her to fly to New York late Friday morning and back to Chicago early Monday afternoon.

Bobby introduced Gleason to his mother. His mom and Gleason talked for a long time that first visit. Mrs. Goren told her son that she was happy he had finally found his one and only. She asked him when he and Gleason were going to be married, as she wanted to be there. Bobby was bothered when his mom started to ask for children's books to read to a little boy who would come and visit her. He spoke with the nurses and they said no children had been about. They promised to watch for this new manifestation. Gleason went with Bobby on his weekly visits to Carmel Ridge. Gleason and Mrs. Goren became as close as mother and daughter. Bobby and Gleason settled into a routine that allowed their love to grow.

Personal and private lives continued to improve for the folks who worked on the eleventh floor of One Police Plaza.

The End


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